Chapter 1: The Silent Garden
The garden had been silent for years.
No laughter echoed between the broken stone paths.
No footsteps disturbed the earth.
Only the wind moved freely, brushing against dry leaves and rusted iron.
At the edge of the abandoned land stood a boy.
His name was Eli.
Every morning, just after sunrise, Eli stopped in front of the old wooden gate. The gate leaned to one side, its paint long peeled away, vines curling tightly around the bars as if trying to keep something inside—or keep the world out.
No one ever went in.
Everyone in the village said the same thing.
"That place is dead."
"Nothing grows there anymore."
"It's better not to touch it."
Eli never argued. He wasn't the kind of boy who spoke much anyway.
But every time he looked at the garden, his chest felt tight—like the earth itself was holding its breath.
The garden didn't feel dead to him.
It felt… lonely.
Eli lived with his grandmother in a small house at the edge of the village. Their backyard was neat and simple, filled with pots of herbs and flowers. His grandmother loved plants. She talked to them while watering, whispered encouragement to weak stems, and smiled whenever something bloomed.
"You have to listen to plants," she often said.
"They tell you what they need."
Eli had listened.
He listened more than he spoke. To the wind. To the soil. To the quiet spaces others ignored.
That was why the abandoned garden called to him.
One morning, the gate was open.
Just a little.
Eli stopped walking.
His heart began to race.
The village road was empty. No voices. No movement. The gate creaked softly as the wind nudged it, the sound low and tired, like an old sigh.
He hesitated.
Don't go in, a voice in his head warned.
Everyone says it's cursed.
But another feeling rose quietly inside him—gentler, warmer.
It's waiting.
Eli stepped forward.
The moment he entered the garden, the air changed.
It was cooler inside, shaded by twisted trees and tall weeds. The ground was cracked, yet beneath the surface, Eli sensed something else—something alive, hidden, struggling.
He knelt and touched the soil.
It was dry.
But not empty.
"All you need," Eli whispered, unsure why he was speaking aloud, "is care."
The garden didn't answer.
But somewhere deep beneath the earth, something stirred.
Eli began to return every day.
At first, he only cleaned. He removed broken branches, cleared stones from the paths, and pulled out dead weeds. His hands blistered. His clothes grew dirty. Still, he smiled.
He brought water from home in small buckets, careful not to take too much. He planted seeds from his grandmother's collection—nothing special, just simple flowers and herbs.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Most seeds did nothing.
But one morning, Eli noticed a tiny green shoot pushing through the soil.
His breath caught.
It was small. Fragile. Easy to miss.
But it was alive.
Eli laughed softly, a sound he rarely made.
"You made it," he said.
The garden seemed a little less quiet that day.
That night, Eli dreamed.
He stood in the garden, but it was different now. Flowers bloomed in colors he had never seen. Trees glowed faintly under the moonlight. The air hummed with warmth.
At the center stood a figure made of light and leaves.
"Thank you," it said—not in words, but in feeling.
Eli woke up with dirt still under his fingernails and a strange warmth in his chest.
The next morning, more sprouts appeared.
Not many—but enough to change everything.
Eli understood then.
This garden wasn't just soil and plants.
It was a promise.
And he was its gardener.