I discover the ficus on a Thursday morning.
"Discover" might be too generous a word for something that has been standing in the corner of my living room the entire time—between the window and the fireplace, green and quiet and completely unremarkable.
I've walked past it a hundred times without noticing it. Without really seeing it. It was just there. Part of the background. Another expensive thing in a penthouse full of expensive things.
But today, something is different.
The leaves are yellowing. Not all of them—just a few at the edges. A faint, sickly color that spreads from the tips inward like a bruise. The soil is dry. Cracked. Pulling away from the sides of the pot like it has given up trying to hold itself together.
I stand in front of it for a long moment. I look at this plant—this ordinary, unremarkable plant that has been here the whole time. Surviving. Barely. While I wandered through my amnesia, lost and confused and completely unaware of its existence.
"I'm sorry," I say to the ficus.
The ficus doesn't respond. It's a plant. But I feel like it deserves an apology anyway. I neglected it. Forgot it. Walked past it every day without seeing it. And now it's dying, and I hadn't even noticed.
---
I find a watering can in the kitchen—under the sink, behind a collection of cleaning supplies I've never used and don't recognize. I fill it with water and carry it back to the living room. The ficus waits with the patience of something that has been waiting a long time.
I water it carefully. Thoroughly. Until the soil is dark and damp and looks like it can breathe again. The water pools briefly on the surface, then sinks in and disappears into the dry earth.
"There," I say. "Better."
I don't know if it's better. I know nothing about plants. The old Vivian probably had a gardener who came once a week to tend to the ficus and whatever other plants exist in this penthouse. But I haven't seen a gardener. I haven't thought to ask.
I make a mental note to ask Lucas.
---
The next day, the ficus looks worse.
The yellow leaves have spread. More of them now, creeping inward like a disease. Some have turned brown at the edges—crispy and curled and dying.
I stare at it in horror.
"I watered you. I gave you water. Why are you dying?"
The ficus doesn't answer. It just stands there, drooping slightly, looking like it has given up.
I water it again. Maybe I didn't give it enough. Maybe it needs more. Maybe it's thirsty and starving and desperate for someone to notice it before it's too late.
I give it more water. And more. Until the soil is saturated. Until water pools on the surface and refuses to sink in. Until the pot feels heavy and full.
"There," I say again. "Now you have enough."
The ficus doesn't look grateful.
It looks like it's drowning.
---
Sophie arrives that afternoon for another search session. She takes one look at the ficus and gasps.
"What happened to your plant?"
"I watered it."
"How much?"
"I don't know. A lot. It looked thirsty."
Sophie kneels beside the ficus. She examines the leaves. Touches the soil. Her expression shifts from curiosity to concern to something approaching horror.
"Vivian. This soil is soaked. Completely waterlogged. You're drowning it."
"I'm helping it."
"You're killing it with kindness. Literally."
I stare at the ficus. The yellow leaves. The brown edges. The drooping branches. I tried to help. I noticed it was suffering and tried to fix it. And I've made everything worse.
"I don't know how to take care of things," I say quietly. "I don't remember if I ever knew."
Sophie's expression softens. "It's just a plant. We can fix this."
"Can we?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Kevin will know. Kevin knows everything."
---
Kevin arrives thirty minutes later with a moisture meter and a small bag of tools. He kneels beside the ficus like a doctor examining a patient. He checks the soil. The leaves. The roots—carefully tipping the pot and peering inside.
"You've watered it four times in two days," he says. "The roots are drowning. They can't breathe. That's why the leaves are yellowing."
"Can you save it?"
Kevin considers. "I don't know. Ficus plants are sensitive. They don't like change. They don't like being moved. They don't like inconsistent care. But they're also resilient. They can survive a lot if given the right conditions."
"What does it need?"
"Less water. More light. Consistent temperature. And time. Plants heal slowly. You won't see improvement overnight."
I look at the ficus. Drooping. Yellow. Barely alive. I nearly killed it by trying too hard. By loving it too much. By not understanding what it actually needed.
It feels like a metaphor for something. I'm not sure what.
"I'll take care of it," I say. "Properly this time. I'll learn what it needs."
Sophie grins. "That's the spirit. Operation Save the Ficus begins now."
Kevin pulls out his laptop. "I'll create a care schedule. Watering frequency. Light requirements. Signs of distress to monitor. We'll document everything."
"You're going to spreadsheet my plant."
"Plants are data. Data requires management."
I look at the ficus. At Kevin's spreadsheet. At Sophie's determined expression. This strange, wonderful family I've stumbled into is going to help me save a plant I nearly killed. Not because it's important. But because it's important to me.
---
Lucas arrives that evening to find all three of us gathered around the ficus. Sophie is reading aloud from a plant care website. Kevin is adjusting something on his laptop. I'm just watching. Waiting. Hoping.
"What happened?" he asks.
"I nearly killed it," I say. "The ficus. I watered it too much. I was trying to help."
Lucas walks over. He examines the plant with clinical detachment—the same expression he uses for contracts and schedules and coffee orders.
"You've watered it four times in two days. The soil is saturated. The roots are likely drowning."
"Kevin already told me."
Lucas looks at Kevin. Something passes between them. Not quite respect. Not quite acknowledgment. Something in between.
"I can try to save it," Lucas says. "If you want."
"You know how to take care of plants?"
"I know how to follow instructions. Kevin has a care guide. I can implement it."
I stare at him. Lucas Grey, my impossibly efficient assistant, is offering to take care of my dying ficus. Not because it's his job. But because I care about it.
"Thank you," I say.
His ears turn pink.
"I'll need to move it," he says. "The light here is insufficient. There's a window in the study that gets morning sun. It will recover better there."
"Okay."
He picks up the pot. Carefully. Gently. Like it's something precious. Something that matters. He carries it out of the living room and down the hall toward his study. I follow him.
He places the ficus on a small table by the window. He adjusts its position until the light falls exactly right. He checks the soil with his finger and frowns slightly.
"I'll need to repot it. The current soil is retaining too much moisture. It needs better drainage."
"You know how to repot plants."
"I researched it while you were talking to Sophie."
Of course he did. Lucas Grey researches everything. Prepares for every possibility. He probably read three articles and watched two videos in the time it took me to explain what happened.
"Thank you," I say again.
His ears go from pink to red.
"It's just a plant."
"It's my plant. I nearly killed it. And you're saving it."
"I'm following instructions. Kevin provided the care guide."
"You're doing more than that."
He doesn't respond. His ears are crimson now. He's focused on the ficus—adjusting its leaves, checking the soil again, doing everything except looking at me.
I watch him for a long moment. This careful, controlled, ear-blushing man. He stayed with me during a panic attack. Held my hand. Said "always" like it was a promise. And now he's saving my dying plant.
"Lucas."
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you're here."
His hands still on the ficus leaves. His ears go from crimson to something approaching purple. He doesn't turn around.
"Always," he says quietly.
I smile. I leave him to his work. Behind me, I hear him exhale slowly—like he's been holding his breath and is only now allowing himself to release it.
I understand.
I'm starting to feel the same way.