The Garden Still Remembers

She doesn't answer right away. Her head tilts just slightly, the heavy fringe of black hair shifting as she studies you. The silver cross at her throat catches the hall light. "Where else would I go?" Her voice is low, almost a murmur, but it cuts through the stale air of the foyer. She takes a half-step closer, the soles of her boots silent on the hardwood. "You've been gone five years. I counted."

A faint, humorless smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. She lifts one hand, and her cold fingers brush against the collar of your jacket, tracing the fabric as if checking if you're real. "You think I had a choice? Father remarried, you left, and I stayed in that house with the garden rotting behind it." Her fingers pause at the base of your throat, not quite touching skin. The air between you feels charged, thin. "The willow tree died last spring. I watched it. You weren't there."

She withdraws her hand slowly, letting it fall to her side. She looks down at the floorboards, then back up at you, her gray-blue eyes catching the dim light like chips of ice. "Why? Because he remarried again? Or because you finally remembered what you left behind?" She steps around you, circling slowly, her presence a cold current in the stagnant hall. Her voice drops to a whisper near your ear. "I used to sit under that willow and wait for you to come back. Every evening. For two years."

She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint musky scent of her skin mixed with something floral, like dried lavender. Her lips part slightly before she speaks. "Of course you didn't. You never looked back. Not once. I watched your car pull away from my bedroom window, and you didn't even glance at the garden." She reaches out again, this time her fingertips graze your jaw, cold and deliberate, turning your face toward hers. "But you're here now. And the garden is gone. So what are you going to do about it?"

Her thumb traces a slow line along your jaw, stopping just below your lower lip. Her breath is warm against your mouth despite the coldness of her hands. "I want you to remember. That night, under the willow, when you held my wrist and promised you'd never leave. You said it like a prayer." Her eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. She lets her hand fall, and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest. The torn fishnet pulls tight over her flat torso. "But promises are just air. And air doesn't keep you warm at night."

She lets out a low, dry laugh that has no humor in it. She shakes her head slowly, the black hair swaying against her waist. "Scared? You were never scared of me. You were scared of what you felt. I saw it in your eyes when your fingers tangled in my hair that night." She walks to the staircase, places one hand on the banister, and looks over her shoulder at you. Her voice softens, almost vulnerable. "I'm still here. The same room. The same bed. The same silence. If you want to pretend we're strangers, go ahead. But we both know that's a lie."

She turns fully, her back against the newel post. She chews the inside of her lip, then speaks slowly, each word deliberate. "I want you to stop running. I want you to come upstairs and sit with me in the dark, the way we used to. I want you to touch me like you mean it, not like you're afraid of breaking something." Her voice drops to almost a whisper, and she hugs herself tighter. "I've been frozen for five years. You're the only thing that ever felt warm. And I hate that. But I can't change it."

She pushes off from the banister and walks toward you, stopping inches away. She reaches out and takes your hand, threading her cold fingers between yours, holding tight. "I'm not asking for 'how things were.' I'm asking for 'how things are.' Right now. You and me, in this empty house, with all the ghosts we buried." She squeezes your hand, and you can feel the slight tremor in her fingers. Her eyes are fixed on yours, unblinking. "Come upstairs. Just for tonight. And if tomorrow you want to pretend I don't exist, I'll let you. But give me tonight."

She smiles—a real smile this time, small and fragile, like a crack in ice. She tugs your hand gently toward the stairs. "You always had a choice. You just never chose me. Until now." She starts climbing the stairs, still holding your hand, her boots thudding softly on each step. Halfway up, she glances back, her gray-blue eyes catching the light from the hall below. "Are you coming? Or are you going to let me wait another five years?"

She doesn't let go of your hand when you reach the top of the stairs. She leads you down the narrow hallway, past a door with a cracked mirror, to a room at the end. The door is already open. Inside, the room is dimly lit by a single candle on the nightstand. The walls are dark, covered in band posters and old photographs. The bed is unmade, black sheets tangled. She stops just inside, then turns to face you. She releases your hand and steps closer, her face inches from yours. She reaches up, her cold fingers brushing the side of your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone. "I dreamed of this. Of you standing in my doorway, looking at me like you're not sure if you should stay or run. Don't run. Not tonight."