#UnnaturalBloom

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The Secret Garden Shaina Tranquilino September 15, 2024

Isla had always been a curious girl, the kind whose boundless curiosity led her to places no one else dared to go. On a crisp autumn afternoon, she wandered far beyond the old churchyard, through the woods, until she stumbled upon something peculiar—an iron gate, half-buried in brambles. It was strange; she had played in these woods for years, yet she had never seen this gate before.

A gentle breeze seemed to beckon her. Isla pushed aside the overgrown vines and felt a strange chill as her fingers touched the cold, rusty bars. With a creak, the gate opened, revealing a hidden path that wound deeper into the forest. Compelled by an unspoken force, Isla followed it, until the trees parted, and there it was—the garden.

It was unlike any place she had ever seen. The garden lay in the middle of a sun-dappled clearing, surrounded by ancient stone walls that were far too old to belong to any house still standing. But it wasn’t the isolation of the garden that made Isla’s breath catch in her throat. It was the flowers.

They bloomed in colours Isla had never imagined—unnatural shades of deep violet, shimmering silver, and hues that seemed to change depending on how the light hit them. Their petals moved, though no wind stirred. Each flower seemed to pulse with life, as if they were breathing. And the fragrance—sweet and intoxicating, yet heavy, like old secrets clinging to the air.

She knelt beside a midnight-blue rose, the darkest of all, drawn to it by a strange compulsion. The moment she touched it, a whisper filled her ears.

"The child in the river... she was pushed."

Isla snatched her hand away, her heart racing. She looked around, expecting to see someone standing behind her, but the garden was still. Her fingers tingled where they had touched the rose, and the whispered words echoed in her mind. She remembered the old town legend about a young girl who had drowned in the river fifty years ago. Everyone said it was an accident. But now... Isla wasn’t so sure.

Her eyes scanned the other flowers, a gnawing feeling growing in her chest. One flower for one secret.

A few feet away stood a tall, silver lily, its petals gleaming in the sunlight. She hesitated, but her curiosity overpowered her fear. As she stroked the petal, a new voice emerged, soft but unmistakable.

"The baker never acted alone."

Isla gasped. There had been whispers in town for years about Mr. Hobbs, the town's kindly old baker, who had disappeared one winter’s night. The rumour was that he had been involved in something shady, but no one knew the truth. The flowers did.

She stood, trembling, unsure if she should continue. Each flower represented a secret, a piece of the town’s dark past that had been buried, forgotten—until now. She looked down at a cluster of blood-red carnations. Did she want to know more? Did she dare?

Against her better judgment, she touched another flower.

"They buried him beneath the willow tree."

The voice was cold, filled with malice. It chilled her blood. Isla knew which willow tree it meant. The ancient one that stood on the edge of town, where people left offerings for good fortune. Was someone buried there? Who?

Panic set in. This garden was no ordinary place; it was a tomb for the town’s sins. And the flowers, beautiful and haunting, were keepers of those sins. She stumbled back, desperate to leave, but as she turned, her foot caught on something—a small, marble plaque hidden beneath the ivy. Brushing the leaves aside, she read the engraving:

"For those who carry the weight of truth."

Isla’s breath hitched. The whispers weren’t just telling her secrets—they were pulling her into them. With each truth she uncovered, she felt the weight of it press against her heart. It was as if the garden demanded she carry the burden of the town's past, as if the flowers were sowing their secrets into her very soul.

A rustling noise caught her attention. The flowers seemed to sway toward her, their colours darkening as if they were feeding on the very air she breathed. She needed to leave—now.

She bolted toward the gate, but her path was no longer clear. Vines had twisted together, blocking her way. The more she fought, the tighter they seemed to grow. Panic surged through her chest. The garden didn’t want her to leave.

"She knows too much," the wind seemed to whisper.

With one final, desperate tug, Isla broke free from the vines and burst through the gate. She ran, heart pounding, until she was far from the garden, far from the whispers. Only when she reached the safety of her home did she stop, collapsing onto her bed in a breathless heap.

That night, Isla dreamed of the garden. The flowers spoke to her in her sleep, their secrets curling around her like smoke. She woke in a cold sweat, a feeling of dread weighing on her.

The next day, she tried to tell someone about what she had seen, but no words would come. It was as if the garden had stolen her voice. And deep inside her, she felt something shifting. The secrets she had touched, they weren’t gone. They were alive inside her, growing, festering like the flowers in that cursed garden.

As the days passed, the whispers followed her, haunting her every step. The more she tried to forget, the more they clung to her. It became clear—she had carried the truth out of the garden, and now it was hers to bear. The garden had chosen her.

And so, Isla became the keeper of the town’s darkest secrets, just as the plaque had warned. She could never go back to the garden, nor could she forget it. But she knew that someday, someone else would stumble upon the iron gate, curious and unsuspecting, and the garden would bloom again.

And the flowers—those beautiful, cursed flowers—would whisper their secrets to a new soul, just as they had to hers.