The garden had always been a sanctuary for Alice. It was a modest plot, tucked behind an old brick wall, where rose bushes sprawled lazily across the sun-warmed soil. Over the years, she’d come to know every inch of it, the way the lavender smelled after a spring rain, how the tulips would bloom with the first hint of warmth, and the gentle buzz of bees that seemed to follow her every time she knelt to prune the hedges. It was her place of peace, her small haven from the noise of the world.
But today, the garden felt different.
Alice stood at the edge of the path, watching the wind push the branches of the apple tree. A few leaves, tinged with brown at the edges, drifted down in slow motion, as if they had nowhere else to be. The grass, once vibrant and thick, now seemed patchy, as if it had given up on being green. She knelt down to pull a few weeds, but the soil felt dry, brittle beneath her fingertips. It had been like this for weeks now, quietly dying, in a way.
She had tried to ignore it, told herself that the garden had seasons, and this was simply one of them. But the feeling had been creeping, bit by bit, that something wasn’t quite right.
Her hands shook as she wiped a few beads of sweat from her forehead. The day was growing warm, though the sky was still overcast. The roses, once so full of color, were now sparse, the petals falling off before they could even open fully. She touched one of the buds, but the soft silk of it didn’t bring the comfort it once did. There was nothing to look forward to, no grand reveal of petals stretching towards the sun.
Alice stood, taking a step back and surveying the space. It felt… empty. Or perhaps, it was more that it had become too familiar. She had spent years tending to it, as though it were something that would always return to her, a promise kept, like a good friend. But now, it seemed like the garden was no longer interested in her care. It had changed, without warning or explanation.
She wandered to the corner where a small bench sat beneath the twisted branches of the wisteria, its purple flowers now faded and limp. The bench, like everything else, was weathered and tired. She had always sat here to watch the sun dip behind the horizon, letting the soft light fade into evening. But now, as she sat, she felt no peace. She only felt… tired.
Alice closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she had felt that sense of joy, that quiet satisfaction of things being just right. It seemed so far away, like a story told long ago.
When she opened her eyes, the garden was still the same. The roses. The trees. The flowers. But everything felt wrong, as if the world had shifted beneath her feet and she hadn’t noticed until now.
Her hand rested on the bench’s arm, the wood cold against her palm. She had spent years of her life here, tending to this small patch of earth, believing it would always remain a source of comfort. But nothing lasts forever. Not the roses, not the sunlight, not even the people who had come and gone in her life.
The sky began to darken, and Alice stood, wiping her hands on her jeans. As she made her way toward the garden’s gate, she paused and looked back. The roses, the wisteria, the apple tree, they were still there, waiting. But there was a distance now, one that hadn’t been there before.
As the gate clicked shut behind her, she realized, for the first time, that the garden had never been what she thought it was.
It was simply a garden.