Page 54 of Built Orc Tough
The wind shifts through the trees. No signs. No booming voice from the sky. Just silence. I laugh under my breath, dry and brittle. “Figures. You were always better at listening than answering.”
I don’t hear the crunch of footsteps until it’s too late to pretend I’m not crying. I wipe at my eyes fast and turn my face away, but Sprout’s already dropping down next to me like she belongs there.
“Didn’t peg you for a graveyard weeper,” she says gently, her little legs swinging over the edge of the stone path.
“I didn’t peg you for a stalker,” I shoot back.
She shrugs. “I’m twelve and bored. Sue me.”
We sit in silence for a while. Her shoulder nudges mine once, a quiet reminder that she’s here, that she’s not leaving even if I don’t have anything witty left to throw at her.
“You know,” she says after a minute, “this town was a lot grayer before you showed up.”
I snort. “You mean dull or actually lacking color?”
“Both.” She pulls a weed from the grass beside the grave. “People liked routine. They liked knowing nothing would change. Then you came in and kicked the whole place sideways with your loud mouth and your weird floral designs and your laugh that made Mr. Thistle blush.”
“He did not,” I mutter.
“He did. I saw it. Documented it.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re the worst.”
“You love me.”
“Debatable.”
Sprout sighs, then turns serious in a way only kids who’ve seen too much can manage. “If you leave, it’s gonna wilt.”
My stomach tightens. “The shop?”
“The town,” she says, like it’s obvious. “You made it bloom again. It’s not just about Gorran. It’s about the way people started looking up when you passed. The way you taught us to look at things sideways. You made it okay to hope.”
I close my eyes.
“I don’t know if that’s enough,” I whisper. “Hope doesn’t fix everything.”
“No, but it’s what grows everything,” she says.
We sit there, her words hanging heavy between us. I let them land.
And I let myself believe—maybe, just maybe—I did something right after all.
The sun’s dipping low by the time I make it back into town. The light filters through the trees like it’s been softened just for me, and I let it touch my skin, let it warm my face like it’s giving me permission.
I don’t go home.
I go to the greenhouse.
It’s quiet there, save for the soft hum of the fans and the occasional flutter of leaves rubbing against each other like they’re whispering secrets. The scent of soil and sun-warmed herbs wraps around me like a cloak I didn’t know I needed. I kick off my boots by the door, roll up my sleeves, and dive in.
I don’t do it for Gorran.
Not for the town. Not for the girl who walked away from everything because she thought she could fix a man with good tea and a decent sense of timing.
I do it for me.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped designing bouquets for the hell of it. Stopped playing. Stopped risking. Started making things to please, to impress, to prove. And I forgot why I ever fell in love with this madness in the first place.
