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I
THE WITHERING GARDEN
E
The last petal finally falls.
Elara blinks back the tears threatening to fall and holds her hands together, intertwining her fingers in prayer. Despite the tremor of the morning cold, her grip tightens as she forces her frame to remain still. A rising breeze sways her long nightgown, scattering the decayed petals into the air.
Dawn mist clings to her late mother’s roses. Fourteen years of mornings like this have passed, and three hundred and fifty red rose bushes stand barren before her. She has witnessed the winter desolation of every single bloom and the lack of care from her father, each fading stem sending an ache through her broken heart.
Elara remembers the sharp disbelief that followed her mother’s passing, along with the sudden agony that gripped her heart. There had been hundreds of roses once, blooming across the grounds in all their color and loveliness. She had begged her father to replace them, to summon gardeners who would tend to the grounds with care, but her pleas had fallen upon a man who could afford to restore everything yet simply chose not to.
“Please, world… grant me happiness. Grant me something that can offer even a glimmer of hope,” she whispers against her hands, her lips trembling. “I have already lost my mother, and my father has never held even an ounce of love for me.” She sniffles, struggling to hold back the emotions rising within her. “I do not understand why the pain never ends, but please… help me.”
Despite years of kneeling over fallen petals, Elara still does not know how to shape her wishes. The habit was simply an inheritance from her mother. She had spent her early childhood watching her sit beside the blooming rose garden, enveloped in its rich fragrance, intertwining her fingers to pray.
As a child, Elara never understood what her mother asked for, or why she entrusted her future to something as fragile as a drifting petal. She knew that her mother did so, and that was enough for her to copy the gesture. Now, years later, she sits amidst the dust of the ruined garden, repeating the same ritual with the final remnants of her hope.
Her thoughts always return to the memories shared with her mother, Queen Aline. It is the only way she has learned to survive the emptiness, even though returning to those moments causes her heart to ache. A part of her still longs for the warmth her mother left behind. One memory rises above the rest, back when she was five, innocent of the cruelties of the world.
It was the day she finally gathered the courage to ask her mother why she prayed over the falling petals.
“Mama,” Elara squeals as she rushes toward her mother, who is seated on the second-to-last step of the long staircase.
Her mother pauses her prayer, her intertwined fingers releasing as she gathers Elara into her arms. A red rose petal slips away beside them, forgotten.
“Careful, dear. You will fall and hurt yourself one day,” she says with a smile, her soft voice filling the garden and blending in with the sounds of the wind and rustling leaves around them.
Elara lays her head against her mother’s lap, where she finds far more comfort than she ever does among her thick pillows. “What were you doing?”
Her mother’s smile grows, outshining the sunlight spilling across the garden. “Praying.”
“Praying?” Elara asks, sitting up and staring at her mother with furrowed brows. “For what?”
Her mother chuckles. “It is simply something for me to believe in. I believe in you, and I believe in your father. But sometimes, believing in something greater gives you a reason to keep hoping.”
Elara remains silent, her mind filling with confusion and curiosity.
Then her mother points ahead. When Elara turns, she notices one of the vibrant red roses has lost a petal, which drifts through the air. “See? A rose lost its petal. It lost a part of itself, but I noticed.” Her mother rises and catches it before it can fly beyond the castle walls. When she returns to her place beside Elara, she places the petal in her hand, her smile remaining.
Elara looks down at the rose petal, lifting her gaze toward her beautiful mother to take in her pale, glowing skin, her vibrant green eyes, her deep brown hair, and her long flowing golden gown filling the steps. She closes her fingers around the petal, tilting her head to the side in a wordless question while her mother continues to smile down at her.
“Now, place it between your hands and intertwine your fingers,” her mother instructs, using her cool hands to guide Elara’s smaller ones together until the petal is safely resting between them. “Every fallen petal has lost the place it once held in the world, along with the form it once possessed.” Leaning in closer, she drops her voice to a quiet whisper, as if sharing a profound secret. “It is sorrowful, yes, but it does not have to remain so. Give it a prayer, Elara, and ask for something good to come from it, whether for yourself or for someone else.”
Elara smiles as the pieces fall into place. Closing her eyes and leaning toward her curled hands, she whispers, “I wish to become like you, Mama.” Elara opens her eyes and looks up at her mother, searching her face for a reaction, especially the smile she loves so dearly.
Her mother laughs and plants a kiss against her temple. “You are better than me, dear. Never wish to become like me.”
Elara wipes away a tear before it can slide down her cheek, forcing the memory aside. With a shuddering breath, she presses a hand to her throbbing heart, hating how painfully it reminds her she is still alive. She doubts the world hears or cares.
What was once lush grass has vanished, replaced by dark, lifeless earth. No insects stir among the soil, and no flowers bend beneath the wind. There are no signs of goodness remaining. The stone beneath her numbs the backs of her thighs as she remains on the second-to-last step of the staircase leading to the castle entrance. This was the same step where her mother once sat beside her with a red rose petal resting between their hands. Elara’s fingers curl in her lap, clutching at her skirt, longing to grasp something real and solid. Her gaze sweeps over the empty garden, waiting to hear a familiar voice that will never call her name again.
She had once found warmth here, comfort enough to rest her head against her mother’s lap and believe that the world could still offer something good if she only knew how to ask for it.
Now, surrounded with nothing but death and decay, she believes in nothing at all. There is no vibrant red petal left for her to catch, nothing to rest between her palms as she prays, no mother beside her to tell her what those petals mean. The place before her still carries the shape of home, with none of its warmth.
The morning wind passes over the barren courtyard. She would worry for her people, but King Eric’s severe laws have driven them far from the castle gates, leaving the fortress isolated from the very subjects she was born to serve.
