Chapter 6: The Glass Garden
Leah found the greenhouse by accident.
It wasn't the kind of place people looked for. Hidden behind the old science building, it was a crooked skeleton of glass and rusting iron. Most of the panes were cracked or missing, the edges sharp where the glass had splintered into jagged fragments. The floor was overrun with weeds—snarled tangles of vines and thorny bushes that had taken root in the cracks of the cement. Yet inside, light filtered through the broken roof in trembling beams, casting shadows that danced like ghosts in the dust-filled air. The space had a quiet kind of beauty to it, a muted grace that only made it seem more ancient, more forgotten.
Leah liked it instantly.
It reminded her of herself—damaged, abandoned, and still alive. Breathing in the stale air, she could almost taste the decay. The place felt like a mirror of everything she had been, everything she had lost, and everything she was still too afraid to become.
She didn't tell anyone about it. Not even Clara.
At first, it wasn't intentional. It was just that the greenhouse, like so many things in her life, became her secret—a space that only existed when she needed to disappear. She began returning every day after school. The door creaked open with a groan, like it was a warning, but Leah ignored it. She would sit on the stone bench at the center, feeling the roughness of the cold stone against her skin, her fingers tracing the cracks in the faded marble. Surrounded by the wilted remains of forgotten orchids and dead vines, the silence in the greenhouse became a kind of refuge. Sometimes, she closed her eyes and let the stillness settle over her like a blanket, imagining what the place could have been, what it might have been in another life.
She imagined it blooming—wild, beautiful, and dangerous. Petals like blades that cut through the air, vines that whispered secrets she couldn't understand, growing in tangled chaos. The Beast was always there, watching. Waiting. It was quieter here, though, as if even the Beast knew this was a place for something else, something slower, something more fragile than hunger.
It wasn't until Clara followed her that the sanctuary cracked.
One afternoon, as the sunlight faded to a pale ghost of itself, Clara appeared at the door. She stepped through, her footfall light, almost apologetic, as if she knew she was intruding. Her voice, soft and careful, barely broke the quiet.
"I figured you had a hideout," Clara said, her words not accusing but curious. "You disappear sometimes."
Leah didn't look up. She didn't need to. She could hear the hesitation in Clara's tone, feel the way she tried not to disturb the fragile peace of the place. "So do you," Leah said, her voice flat, but not unkind.
Clara sat beside her on the narrow bench. Their shoulders brushed, and for a moment, Leah didn't pull away. She didn't know why. Maybe it was because the weight of Clara's presence felt different here, different from anywhere else. It was something less like an intrusion and more like a quiet acceptance.
"I used to have a place like this," Clara said, her voice quieter now, almost distant. "After... everything. Somewhere to breathe." She looked at the broken glass, the overgrown vines, the desolate beauty of it all. "It helped. Sometimes, I think we all need somewhere to hide."
Leah didn't respond. She didn't know how to. She didn't want to talk about what had happened to her, to Clara, to anyone. The silence between them stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was, strangely, familiar.
"This place doesn't breathe," Leah said after a while, her voice low, almost wistful. "It decays."
Clara's smile was small, tinged with something sad. "Even rot can grow something new."
Leah didn't answer. Couldn't. The words felt foreign to her. It wasn't that she didn't understand them—it was that she didn't believe them. There was no new growth in decay. There was only death. Only darkness. But Clara didn't press her. She didn't try to change Leah's mind. She just sat there, the warmth of her presence filling the space between them. For a moment, Leah didn't feel so cold.
The next day, Leah brought a knife. Not for Clara. For the vines.
She approached the garden with purpose, the blade gleaming in her hand. The vines had taken over again, curling around the base of the stone bench, reaching for the light that never quite reached the floor. Leah moved slowly, methodically, trimming the dead parts, cutting away the decay. The Beast stirred, restless beneath her skin, eager to see her sharpen the blade, to hear the rasp of metal against the tough stems. But Leah was careful. She didn't flinch when the sharp edge of glass scraped her palm, drawing a thin line of blood. It stung for a moment, but she didn't pull away.
The blood didn't mean anything. It wasn't the same as before. It was just a mark. Just part of the process.
The Beast was quiet again, watching.
Clara arrived with seeds the next afternoon—wildflowers, strange ones with names Leah couldn't pronounce. They were small, delicate things, but full of color, a flash of life in a place that had been left behind. She knelt next to Leah and began to plant them in broken pots, in rusted cans, anywhere the soil could hold them.
Leah didn't understand why it mattered. But she did it anyway. She helped. She planted. She watered, careful not to disturb the fragile roots. The vines still crept up the sides of the greenhouse, but now, in between the decay, there was something new. Something different. Something alive.
Because Clara asked. Because for a moment, Leah wanted to know what it felt like to make something grow instead of wither.
It was strange, how that small, simple act had such weight. It was as if, for just a few minutes, Leah wasn't the one causing things to die. She wasn't the one breaking things. She was… something else. Something new. And for the first time, she wasn't sure if the Beast liked it.
The greenhouse became their place, their shared silence. It was where they met every afternoon, after school, where they planted and tended to the fragile things that didn't belong in the decaying ruin of the old building.
But the world outside didn't stop.
Jason's name became another echo, another wound that the town tried to bury under layers of denial. Whispers ran like cold rivers through the hallways. Did you hear? Was it the same group that attacked him? A mugging, they said. Couldn't have been anything else. It was just another tragedy, wrapped in a story no one wanted to tell.
But Leah knew better. She always did. She had seen it all before, the way people tried to hide the truth. How they wanted to erase it and pretend everything would just go back to normal. But it never did. It never would. And now, Clara was part of that knowing. Whether she realized it or not, she was tangled in the same web of lies and truth that Leah had been living in for so long.
One evening, as rain tapped against the broken glass above, Clara turned to her. Her eyes were steady, searching. Leah felt the weight of it, but she didn't look away.
"I know you've done things," Clara said, her voice soft but unwavering.
Leah froze. She didn't want to hear this. Didn't want Clara to see her.
Clara didn't look away. She didn't flinch. "I don't want you to tell me. Not yet. But I see it in you. The storm. The sharp edges."
Leah's breath caught in her throat. She didn't know how to respond. The words stuck in her chest, too heavy to push out.
"Aren't you afraid?" she whispered, her voice trembling without meaning to.
Clara shook her head slowly. "No. Just… sad."
"Why?" Leah's voice was thin, fragile.
"Because someone like you shouldn't have been left alone in the dark."
For the first time in a long time, Leah wanted to cry.
But she didn't.
The Beast inside her, the thing that had been gnawing at her, stepped back. Just a little, just enough.