Chapter 38: The Blossoming Garden
The warmth of the sun hung heavy in the air, casting a golden glow across the sprawling garden. Eva stood near the low stone wall, her small hands pressed against the cool surface, watching the butterflies flutter lazily from flower to flower. Her hair, once neatly combed and tied with ribbons, had come loose from her ponytail, strands falling around her face like golden threads in the sunlight.
She was two.
But today, as she wandered through the garden, speaking in soft, quiet sentences to the birds and the roses, she seemed older somehow. She had learned much since their arrival in this new place. Her parents' names had changed, their faces now hidden behind new identities, but they had always remained the same. They still showered her with love, even when they were busy. They didn't hover, and they didn't overwhelm her with questions. They let her discover the world in her own way, a gift that she could never fully explain.
The garden was her place of peace now. When she had first arrived, everything had felt so strange—new sounds, new faces, new customs. Her life had been one of constant shifting. But now, after months of living here, she had found her rhythm. She knew the path from the main house to the garden by heart. She knew the names of each flower, and had even memorized the way the birds sang at different times of day.
Today, the morning was filled with the sound of hummingbirds.
"Good morning, you," she whispered to the little bird that hovered near the lilies. She waved her hand, and the bird took flight, its wings a blur of green and purple.
Her world was small, but it was hers. Eva had learned to embrace the moments of silence that came when her parents were working, the moments of stillness when only the sound of the wind in the trees filled the air. She was alone often, but not lonely. Not anymore.
She understood now that loneliness was not something to fear; it was simply a moment in time. She had lived through it before, and now she had learned how to fill the silence. She talked to the flowers, the birds, and sometimes to the old stone walls of the house, as if they could understand her better than anyone else.
But that didn't mean she didn't miss them. Her mama, her papa, her aunt—Vivienne—each of them had a part of her heart. They all shared the same love for her, but as time passed, they became busier and busier. Her papa's hands smelled like leather and ink, his tie always a bit loose at the end of the day. Her mama's scent was often mixed with the sharp tang of papers and coffee, her voice hurried and yet full of meaning when she would take the time to talk with Eva. Vivienne, her aunt, was still the one who took her out for long walks, still the one who would press flowers into her tiny palms, still the one who told her stories.
But, Eva noticed, Vivienne was becoming quieter, too. Even the playful pinches on her cheek had grown less frequent. The days blurred into each other now.
Eva didn't mind. She had learned that change was inevitable. She had been through enough upheaval to know that. Besides, she had more time to think now, more space to explore the world inside her mind.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Eva returned to the house, her bare feet sinking into the soft grass. Her tiny dress, decorated with embroidered daisies, fluttered in the breeze, and she twirled once, making a small sound of joy escape her lips. She could feel the pulse of the earth beneath her, the gentle hum of the world she had come to know, and a part of her—though young—knew it wasn't forever. Nothing ever was.
*****
Back inside, the house had a soft, echoing silence. The servants had gone about their work, Miriam and Alina busy in the kitchen, Mr. Leo tending to the garden. Eva's eyes drifted to the drawing room, where the familiar sights and sounds of her new life were scattered. Books, paper, pencils, all things that Eva had come to love. She had developed a habit of sorting through her thoughts, putting them on paper like a scientist recording her observations.
But today, she was different. Today, she didn't want to focus on the endless questions of why and how. She had spent so much of her life thinking, and while that made her feel mature, it also made her forget how to be a child.
Today, she wanted to be simple. To play. To let herself feel things without dissecting them.
When her aunt came in, Eva's eyes lit up.
"Aunt Vivienne!" she called, running to her with a grin on her face.
Vivienne smiled as she crouched down to meet her. "There's my little princess," she said, lifting Eva into her arms with ease.
Eva wrapped her arms around her aunt's neck and snuggled against her. "Tell me a story," she asked, her voice soft but firm.
Vivienne chuckled. "What kind of story would you like, my love?"
Eva thought for a moment, tapping her chin. "One with flowers and birds and… butterflies," she said dreamily, her imagination running wild.
"Ah, I know just the one," Vivienne said, her voice light and easy as she began to weave a tale about a magical garden full of talking flowers and singing birds. Eva listened intently, her wide eyes fixed on her aunt's face as she spoke.
The world outside may have been changing, but in moments like these, Eva found comfort in the familiar. She found peace in being held, in being told stories, in forgetting about the weight of everything that came before. In these moments, she didn't feel like she was a genius or a child of high expectations. She was just Eva—alive in the moment, learning to live.
*****
As the days passed, Eva's world continued to unfold, one small moment at a time. She wandered the house, finding joy in its many corners. Her little feet padded softly across the marble floors, her fingers brushing against the textures of things she had never noticed before—the ridges in the stone pillars, the feel of cool glass under her hand, the softness of a velvet cushion pressed to her cheek.
Eva had always been perceptive, but now, she was allowing herself to let go, to stop thinking so hard about everything. She wasn't going to let herself be consumed by the complexities of her mind. For the first time, she could laugh without restraint, her giggles ringing through the house as she chased after the housekeeper's cat or danced with a broom.
One evening, after dinner, her mama came to sit beside her on the couch, brushing a lock of hair behind Eva's ear.
"Are you happy, my sweet girl?" she asked softly, her voice filled with a tenderness that only mothers could convey.
Eva nodded, her wide eyes full of sincerity. "Yes, Mama," she whispered. "I'm happy."
Her mama smiled, a quiet sort of sadness in her eyes. "I'm glad," she said, kissing the top of Eva's head. "You deserve to be."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Eva didn't think about the past. She didn't worry about the future. She simply lived in the moment, her heart full of warmth, and her spirit free.
The world outside the house might have been a whirlwind of change, but inside, Eva found peace. She was no longer just a child or a genius. She was becoming something else entirely—a little girl full of wonder and curiosity, ready to face whatever the world had in store.