In the undergrowth of the lush Greywood forest stood a cabin. Here lived the woman acclaimed to be the doctor of the century, for her knowledge of medicine was unmatched on the continent and sought by many.
But what many did not know was that she had passed away. Thus, her apprentice Sylvan was the one who inherited her mantle.
– Under the Wisteria tree now lies Arden, my teacher, who taught me everything I now know and raised me to be the person I have become. –
The young man, whose name was Sylvan, now knelt before the headstone of his beloved mentor.
With red-rimmed eyes, he looked at the grave and began to recite farewell prayers.
– "Under this wisteria you loved so much, rest now, mother. Not as a stranger to the earth, but as part of it. Here, where you taught me the secrets of herbs and the language of the wind, I now return your body to the earth you cared for so deeply. Every spring, when these flowers fall like violet tears, I will feel you still embracing me with the same sweetness with which you raised me." – As he bid farewell to the person he loved most in his life, Sylvan began to recall his last moments with her:
On the bed lay the tired old woman, whom illness had already ravaged, leaving her in a state of fragility the young man had never seen before.
–"Sylvi, I still remember when I first held you in my arms, as fragile and small as an autumn flower petal." –
– "Teacher…" – whispered the young man with a sunken heart, gripping his mentor's hand tightly as he sobbed.
– "I know I don't have much time left, my time has come, but don't feel sad, for I will remain with you. Just as the wind carries away the flowers, but their scent will forever remain in your heart." –
–"I bequeath to you my research and my legacy as a healer, for I know you can continue it, since I taught you everything I know. I know you have many questions that still have no answers for you." –Arden raised her hand, trying to give him something– "Here, I give you the key to my office, where all the documents, contracts, and research you weren't allowed to know are kept. But with them comes a great responsibility. Before I fall ill, you will have to take care of my final task. I'm sorry to leave you with this heavy burden, but this is work that only we can complete. Don't worry, for when the wind brings the orchid flowers, you will know your mission." –
The young man held the hand of his maternal figure, and tears began to well in his eyes. Suddenly, his own trembling betrayed his farewell: her hand grew cold, slipped from his, and fell, motionless. A dense silence filled the cabin. There were no more questions to ask, nor answers to await. Only the emptiness of a hand that would no longer hold his.
A dry groan tore from his throat. – "No..." – He whispered at first, as if gently he could bring her back, and then he shouted: – "No! Wake up!" –. He leaned over her, shaking her shoulder, searching her pale face for a glimpse of the woman who had raised, taught, and loved him. Only emptiness stared back. And there Sylvan collapsed onto her lap and cried like the child he still was, deep down.
The days passed quickly, and in the blink of an eye, a month had gone by since the loss of his teacher. The cabin hadn't changed much, but for Sylvan, his entire reality had crumbled. He tried to get used to his solitude, but the warmth of his home had vanished. The fire seemed to burn with less strength, the air smelled of dust and dry herbs, and the vitality and color that once filled every corner seemed to have lost their shine.
Just as his teacher had told him in her final moments, he continued his work, treating the patients who came seeking his help. At first, people distrusted him, unsure of his abilities, and he had to admit that without his teacher, everything was more complicated. But little by little, with every patient recovered and every medicine correctly prepared, he honored the title of disciple of the Wisteria healer.
Thus, the name of the healer Hyacinth slowly spread through nearby regions, hiding behind the veil of the floral abode the name his teacher had once given him.
As the days passed, the young man mustered his courage and decided to enter his mentor's office.
After inserting the key into the lock and turning the knob, it opened with a creak, revealing the orderly and cold space Sylvan had never entered before. This was the only room in the house he wasn't permitted to access, yet he never questioned why, simply accepting the fact that his teacher had things she didn't wish to share with him.
Inside a drawer in the silent office were various types of documents. Sylvan carefully examined each one but couldn't fully understand the content written in them.
Among the elegant script were written names of flowers, but the one that caught his attention the most was the orchid, for that was the flower mentioned by his teacher in her final moments.
He remembered that, at some point in the not-too-distant future, he would have to take care of the request from that person whose identity lay beneath the delicate petals of the orchid.
Thus, he assumed that the other flowers written on that paper must have been clients his teacher had at some point, but he decided he would look at them another time.
The first ray of sunlight fell upon Sylvan's marked dark circles, who had been waking up with tired eyes before dawn for a month. As the void now permeated the entire house, it greeted him.
He got up sluggishly. He lit the fire, heated water, and drank a bitter infusion without sitting down, standing in front of the window. He checked his plants with the routine of someone caring for the only thing he has left.
He crushed roots in the mortar, filled jars, and wrote labels with tired handwriting. Before leaving, his fingers brushed the dried wisteria hanging on the door.
―"I'll be back by nightfall" ―, he murmured, as always. And that lie, told to no one, was the most human thing he did all day.
He could no longer stand being in the cabin. After a month, every corner reminded him of her: the mortar she used, her cup on the shelf, the light on the table. Breathing inside was like embracing a ghost. Going out into the forest, even if only for a while, was his only relief.
Sylvan closed the cabin door with a sigh that came from the depths of his being. The forest enveloped him with its smell of damp earth and fallen leaves. As he walked, his fingers brushed against the tree trunks as if greeting old acquaintances.
―"Good morning" ― he murmured as he passed the ancient oak, as he always did.
He found some plantain leaves near the stream – good for wounds –, he couldn't help but smile and put them in his leather bag. A little further on, among the roots of an oak tree, he discovered a small cluster of tinder fungus, which he harvested carefully.
Suddenly, something cold and soft brushed against his hand. It was Toast, his orange cat, arriving punctually as he did every morning.
―"I know, I know... you're hungry" ―, murmured Sylvan, stroking the feline's head with a weary smile. Toast looked at him with those golden eyes that seemed to understand everything, and then darted away, jumping through the ferns, as if leading the way back.
As evening fell, while returning to the cabin with Toast following him like a shadow, Sylvan paused for a moment in front of the wisteria. This time, instead of clenching his fists, he let his fingers gently caress the dried clusters.
The evening began to tinge the sky with oranges and purples as Sylvan returned to the cabin. He returned to the silent place that was both his rest and his torment, for that silence followed him to every last corner of the dwelling.
While sorting medicinal roots on the wooden table, the clear sound of the doorbell cut through the silence of the cabin.
Sylvan blinked, surprised.
—"At this hour?" —he murmured to himself, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
He left the valerian half-sorted and wiped his hands on his apron. It wasn't fear he felt, but that strange pang of someone receiving an unexpected visit when they had already grown accustomed to solitude.
—"Who could be in the forest at this hour?" —he whispered as he approached the door, noticing his heart beating a little faster, and went to the door to see who it was.
Two hooded figures stood at the door. Sylvan took a step back, surprised by the unexpected visit.
—"How can I help you?" —he asked, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.
Then he noticed the details: their cloaks were of fine wool, not the rough fabric worn by peasants. And on the taller one's waist, the hilt of a sword protruded from beneath the cloak. They were not merchants or common travelers. These men were obviously dressed not to attract attention, but the quality of their garments gave them away; they were definitely not common folk.
The young man's eyes fixed on the delicate brooch visible on the dark cloak. It was shaped like an orchid. It was then that Sylvan finally understood that the moment had come to fulfill the mission his teacher had left in his hands.
The hooded figure removed the hood covering his face, revealing serene eyes the color of pure gold and short white hair the shade of white snow. Seeing this, his companion also followed suit, revealing short blue hair and sharp gray eyes.
The unknown young man with white hair spoke in a calm voice.
– "It seems the Hyacinth flower has taken the place of the old Wisteria tree. I am the Orchid. I assume your teacher spoke of me." –