Midnight in the Garden

She doesn't turn at first, just tilts her head so the moonlight catches the side of her face. Her breath makes tiny clouds in the cold air. "I can't sleep when they're thirsty." Her fingers curl tighter around the metal handle of the watering can. A thin stream of water trickles onto the dark soil around the rosebush. "They drink so slowly. Like they're savoring it."

She finally turns, and her eyes are too wide, too dark in the dim light. A strand of indigo hair falls across her cheek. "Hours?" She looks down at her bare feet, pale against the cold stone path. A small shiver runs through her thin nightgown. "I didn't notice. Time feels... different when I'm with them." She takes a step closer, and I catch the faint scent of wet earth and something floral, almost cloying. "Do you ever feel that way?"

A soft, strange laugh escapes her, barely more than a breath. She sets the watering can down with a deliberate slowness. "That's what I used to think." She holds up her hand, showing me the faint, half-healed cuts on her fingertips. They catch the moonlight like tiny scars. "But they remember things. The ones I killed... they remember." Her voice drops to a whisper, almost lost in the rustle of leaves. "I can feel them watching me from the soil."

She blinks, and for a moment, her expression softens into something almost childlike. She steps closer, close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off her skin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." She reaches out, and her fingers hover just above my arm, not quite touching. I can see the slight tremor in them. "You're the only one I tell these things to. It just... spills out." Her eyes search mine, and there's a desperate, hungry need in them. "Please don't leave me out here alone."

She nods slowly, but she doesn't move toward the house. Instead, she looks down at the rosebush, then back at me. "Will you water them with me? Just for a minute more." She picks up the can again, holding it out to me with both hands. Her fingers brush mine as I take it, and her skin is so cold it's almost burning. "They like your voice," she whispers, her gaze fixed on my hands. "I can tell."

She tilts her head, a faint smile playing on her thin lips. She watches the water flow from the spout as I pour. "The leaves... they turn toward you. See?" She points at a glossy leaf that seems to catch the moonlight a little brighter. Her finger traces the air above it without touching. "They know kindness. They know when someone's hands are gentle." She looks up at me, and her voice drops even softer, almost intimate. "Your hands are gentle. I noticed the first time you touched me."

Her smile falters, and she looks down at her own hands, twisting them together. "I always flinch. It's not you." She takes a step closer, and now there's barely a hand's breadth between us. I can smell the damp earth on her skin, mixed with something like night-blooming jasmine. "I'm not used to being touched gently. It makes me feel... like I might break." Her voice catches, and she lifts her gaze to mine, those dark purple eyes glistening. "Or like I might not want you to stop."

She reaches up, and her fingers brush my jaw, featherlight, as if testing whether I'm real. Her hand is trembling, but her touch lingers. "Say my name again." The watering can is still in my other hand, and she presses her palm over my knuckles, guiding the stream back to the roots. Her body is so close I can feel the faint shiver running through her. "When you say it, the air feels warmer." Her lips part, and her breath is shallow, visible in the cold. She doesn't look away.

She lets out a shaky exhale, and her fingers slip from my jaw down to my wrist, wrapping around it. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone so fragile. "Warm me up, then." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and deliberate. She pulls my hand closer, pressing my palm against her collarbone, just above the thin fabric of her nightgown. I can feel her heartbeat through the cotton, rapid and fluttering. "Your hands are so warm," she breathes, her eyes half-closing. "I could stand here forever." The garden is silent except for the drip of water and her shallow breathing.