The day began like any other in Weedwick — which meant Moss was already covered in tea stains, Gary was making cutting remarks about her "chaotic posture," and the castle itself was groaning at the sky for daring to cloud over. Moss, exasperated, muttered about wanting just one day of peace and decided to wander through the quieter, dustier corridors of Weedwick. Perhaps if she got lost enough, she could escape responsibility.
She didn't plan to fall through a wall. That part, she decided instantly, was entirely Weedwick's fault.
She was pacing, mumbling under her breath about fertilizer formulas, when the floor groaned ominously. She stopped mid-step. "Don't even think about it," she hissed at the castle.
The wall shivered.
"Oh, no you don't—" Moss tried to retreat, but the stones gave way beneath her hand like soggy bread. She tumbled forward with a yelp, smashing through plaster and landing in a tangle of vines and dust.
"Excellent," she groaned, moss tangled in her hair. "Perfect ten-point landing. Grace incarnate."
From behind the crumbled hole, Gary's voice floated down the hall. "If you're dead, can I have your collection of chipped teacups?"
"Not dead!" Moss snapped, coughing on dust. Humiliated, but alive.
The Secret Garden
When she staggered to her feet, her breath caught in her throat.
She was standing in a hidden atrium — vast, domed, and overgrown with flora unlike any she'd seen. Pale light streamed through broken stained glass windows above, scattering the colors across leaves like jewels. Silver-veined trees arched high into the dome. Blooms the size of her head glowed faintly, casting the chamber in blues and greens. Vines hummed, coiling lazily, their tips swaying toward her like curious animals.
The air smelled thick of damp soil, herbs, and something older — grief, memory, and promise. Every plant in the room seemed to lean toward her, as if recognizing her presence. A fern unfurled, spilling golden spores that shimmered around her like starlight. A blossom turned its face and sighed audibly.
Moss pressed her trembling hands to her mouth. Her heart swelled and hurt at once. Why am I crying? Oh no. No, stop that. This is not the time to cry, you ridiculous witch.
A low rumble vibrated through the walls, and Weedwick shifted around her, stone grating as if clearing its throat. A panel slid aside, revealing an old painting: a woman with earth-dark hair, holding a bouquet of thorned roses. Her smile was tender, her eyes alight with the same reverence Moss felt.
Underneath the painting, faintly etched into the frame, was a name: Elira Thornveil. And a date: Keeper of Roots, 172 years.
Moss's breath hitched. "You knew about this," she whispered, staring into Elira's painted eyes. "You kept this from me?"
Weedwick answered only with movement: a shutter slamming shut on its own, a shelf tilting as though sighing. Moss knew him well enough to translate. Yes.
Her chest squeezed. "Why?"
The ivy along the wall curled protectively around the portrait. Stones groaned low. She interpreted it in silence. She loved this place before you. I promised to keep it safe for her.
Moss traced the cracked frame of the painting, her finger brushing the carved name. "Elira Thornveil… Keeper of Roots." The words sat heavy on her tongue. For a breath she compared herself to the figure, then flinched inwardly. She looks like she belongs here. Do I? Stars, what if I never measure up? What if I'm just the messy replacement? Her throat ached with the thought.
"She was like me," Moss whispered, though it felt like she was trying to convince herself.
Weedwick's floorboards creaked sharply, a corrective sound. A shelf slid open slightly, and ivy bent in toward her, spelling out meaning she felt in her bones: Not Bloom Witch. Keeper of Roots.
Moss let out a laugh that trembled between tears and joy. "Keeper of Roots. Stars, that's so much better than Bloom Witch. Bloom Witch makes me sound like an accident with pollen."
Gary stuck his head through the broken wall. "Accurate."
"Gary!" Moss wailed, wiping her face furiously. Why am I crying in front of Gary? Why must fate torment me so?
Moss pressed her palm to the stone, her thoughts whirling. Elira looked like she belonged here completely. What if I never measure up? What if Weedwick secretly wishes she'd come back instead of me? She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe. And yet another thought rose, fragile but bright: He kept this place safe for her. And now he's showing it to me. Maybe that means I'm accepted too.
Moss pressed her palm against the warm stone. "Why hide this from me, Weedwick? These plants… they're like family. They make me feel whole. Did you think I wouldn't understand?"
The ivy crept slowly around her wrist, hesitant, like an apology. She read the meaning in its shy touch: I feared you would replace her. Erase her memory.
Her chest tightened. "Weedwick, no. I could never. I don't want to erase her—I want to honor her. With you. With them." She gestured to the glowing flora. "She loved them. I love them too. That doesn't cancel her out."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not cold. The stained glass light shifted warmer, brighter. She understood what Weedwick was telling her now: Then they are yours too.
"Ours," Moss corrected, her voice soft but firm. "Yours, mine, hers. Together."
To seal it, Moss bent down and pressed her hand into the soil at her feet. With shaky fingers she traced a circle, then placed a small sprig of her own magic-grown moss in the center. "For Elira," she whispered. "For me. For us." The plants around her rustled approvingly, like witnesses to her vow.
Twig wasn't done escalating. After shrieking at the daisy, he tried to disguise himself as a plant — yanking a fern frond over his head and standing stiffly. "Nothing to see here, fellow foliage! Just your average shrub!" His knees knocked together beneath the leaves.
Gary arched a brow. "Convincing. Truly. I almost prefer the spoon routine."
Twig peeked out from the frond and gasped. "You! You're in league with them, aren't you? Making alliances with the flowers while I suffer!" He jabbed his spoon at Gary accusingly. "The begonias trust you more than me!"
Moss buried her face in her hands, half laughing, half despairing. "Stars help me. This is my life now."
Twig barreled through the opening at that exact moment, waving a spoon like a blade. "Moss! Gary said you'd been devoured by vines!"
"I encouraged them," Gary replied smoothly from the doorway.
Twig froze mid-step, eyes bulging as he saw the glowing, humming flora. "Oh no. It's happening. This is how the plants finally eat us."
A nearby blossom sneezed glittery pollen all over him.
Twig shrieked. "SEE?! It's already started!" He bolted in a frantic circle, waving his spoon. "We're doomed!"
He then dived dramatically under a giant leaf, quivering. "Don't let them know I'm delicious!" he whispered. When the leaf twitched in the breeze, he yelped and pointed an accusing finger. "That flower is glaring at me. It wants me first!"
Moss pinched the bridge of her nose. "Twig, that's a daisy. It doesn't even have eyebrows."
"It could grow them at any moment!" he cried, crawling deeper beneath the leaf.
Moss slapped a hand over her face, groaning. I wanted a quiet life. Just tea and pruning shears. Now I've got ancient secret gardens, ghost gardeners, and a cactus who thinks he's royalty. She glanced back at the portrait. Elira Thornveil's serene smile seemed to widen knowingly. "You're laughing at me, aren't you?"
By the time Moss whispered Elira's name one last time, she thought she saw the painted eyes in the portrait soften, as if acknowledging her vow. A shiver went down her spine — not of fear, but of being seen and accepted.
By the time Moss had dragged Twig out by the collar and swatted Gary with a fern for snide remarks, she'd made a quiet decision. This hidden garden wasn't a curse—it was a gift. A legacy. Another witch — Elira Thornveil, Keeper of Roots for 172 years — had planted roots here, once loved, once remembered. Now Moss would love and remember too.
Even as she stood in the secret garden, hands still trembling, she thought: All I wanted was quiet. And instead, fate keeps handing me chaos.
And yet, beneath the glowing blossoms, she found herself smiling through her tears.