Chapter 28: The Language of Flowers
El opened his eyes.
The garden.
But not the dying one.
This was the original garden.
The one from before.
The swing beneath the sky-touching tree.
The starlight fountain.
The flowers in colors that didn't exist.
And she was there.
The Aletheia look-alike.
The soft one.
The guide.
She stood among the blooms, her white dress catching light that came from nowhere and everywhere.
When she saw him, she smiled — that same sad, knowing smile.
"Didn't I tell you?" she said softly.
"Time is weird here."
El stared at her.
"I was just— the playground— I screamed— I saw her—"
"You did." She nodded.
"And now you're here."
"I don't understand."
She gestured to the flowers around them.
"Then look. Really look. Now you understand the meaning of these flowers?"
El turned.
Memory's bloom.
Silver and soft blue, glowing faintly.
Heart's ease.
Warm gold and pink, shaped like tiny hearts.
Forget-me-not-but-please-do.
Deep purple, almost black, edges fading into nothing.
He'd seen them before.
She'd explained them before.
But now—
Something tugged at him.
A feeling.
A thread.
Memory's bloom.
Made of memories.
He looked closer.
The petals seemed to shift, almost forming shapes.
Faces?
Moments?
He reached out—
"Don't."
Her voice was gentle but firm.
"Not yet. Just look."
El pulled back. Stared.
Heart's ease.
Bloom when someone finds peace.
He thought of Kaye.
Of the moments in this garden.
The swing.
The cliff.
Her head on his shoulder.
Was that peace?
Was that real?
Forget-me-not-but-please-do.
Bloom when someone is trying to forget.
His chest tightened.
Who's trying to forget?
He looked at the Aletheia look-alike.
"What am I supposed to see?"
She tilted her head.
"You tell me. You're the one who's been here more than anyone. You're the one who keeps coming back."
"I don't—"
He stopped.
Looked at the flowers again.
Memory's bloom.
Yours.
Hers.
Everyone who's ever come here.
Mostly yours.
Kaye's words echoed in his mind.
From that first meeting.
"You've been here more than anyone, El. You just don't remember."
He looked at the flowers again.
Really looked.
And for a moment — just a moment — he thought he saw something.
A face in the petals of memory's bloom.
His face.
Younger.
Smaller.
A child.
His breath caught.
"What—"
The garden flickered.
The Aletheia look-alike smiled.
Sad.
Knowing.
"You're starting to see," she whispered.
"That's enough for now."
"Wait—"
But she was already fading.
"Sweet dreams, El."
---
The sign buzzed overhead, flickering in that familiar rhythm.
WHIMSY. COFFEE. SINCE— the letters stuttered—WE FORGOT.
Inside, the barista wiped the counter with a rag that had seen better days.
Same tired eyes.
Same nose ring.
Same slumped posture that suggested his soul had clocked out years ago but his body forgot to follow.
A customer approached — young, professional, on her phone, not really present.
"Caramel macchiato."
He nodded.
Turned to the machine.
His hands moved automatically.
Years of practice.
But his mind was elsewhere.
The boy. The one with the loud friend.
The one who sat at that table every week drinking House Drip like it was going out of style.
He'd warned him.
Clear as day.
"If I were you, I wouldn't go back there."
But he went anyway.
And now—
"I told you, didn't I?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The customer looked up from her phone.
"I'm sorry? Are you talking to me?"
He shook his head.
Poured the milk.
Steamed it.
"Don't mind me. Just talking to myself."
She stared at him for too long.
Then shrugged.
Went back to her phone.
He finished the drink.
Set it on the counter.
"Here's your caramel macchiato."
She took it.
Walked away.
The barista watched her go.
Then his eyes drifted to the empty table by the window.
The one with the wobbly leg and the duct-taped chair.
He's not coming back, is he?
Not the same, anyway.
He picked up the rag.
Started wiping again.
Nothing he could do now.
He'd warned him.
That was all he could do.
---
Is that all he can do?
The thought surfaced unbidden.
Heavy.
Unwelcome.
Maybe he could do more if he pushed a little more?
Or maybe if he stopped El and stopped using cryptic words?
"You know I can erase you from this timeline, Shade?"
The barista's voice was low, casual — but the threat beneath it was ancient.
The air behind him shifted.
Cold.
Familiar.
"Also stop lingering in my café, you stinking soul," he added without turning around.
A dry chuckle echoed from the corner where shadows pooled thickest.
The figure materialized slowly — not walking in, but becoming there.
Hollow eyes.
Static at the edges.
The same presence that had watched El since the beginning.
"Argh, you didn't change at all after so many years that I couldn't count."
The figure's voice rasped like dry leaves.
"You're still cold."
The barista finally turned.
Met those hollow eyes with his own tired ones.
"And you're still haunting children."
"Not children. Just one."
"The boy."
"The boy."
The figure — Shade — tilted his head.
"He used the cracker."
"I know."
"He saw her."
"I know."
"He's falling apart."
The barista's jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Shade watched him.
"You care about him."
"I don't care about anyone."
"Liar."
The barista picked up the rag again.
Wiped the same spot he'd already cleaned.
Shade drifted closer.
Not walking — just moving, like smoke.
"You warned him. Plain words. Not your usual riddles."
"He needed to hear it."
"And he didn't listen."
"No. He didn't."
Shade was quiet for a moment.
Then. "What happens now?"
The barista stopped wiping.
Looked at the empty table by the window.
"Now we watch."
"That's all?"
"That's all we've ever done."
Shade's hollow eyes seemed to gleam.
"Not true. You warned him. I've been watching since the beginning. We're already doing more than we're supposed to."
The barista set down the rag.
Met those eyes.
"And if it's not enough?"
Shade didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
Then, softly. "Then we do more."
The barista stared at him. Long and hard.
"Do more?"
His voice was flat.
Unimpressed.
"Can you take responsibility for that? You can't even wake him."
Shade's form flickered — something between a flinch and a shrug.
"Hey, hey, you're going too far."
His tone shifted, defensive now, almost whining.
"What can I do from these shackles?"
He lifted a hand — or tried to.
Something invisible pulled it back down.
"If it weren't for these stupid things, I'd already wake him, you know"
The barista's eyebrow twitched.
The closest he ever came to amusement.
"Shackles."
"Yeah, shackles. Chains. Bonds. Whatever you wanna call them."
Shade gestured vaguely at his own translucent form.
"You think I like being stuck like this? Watching from the shadows? Can't touch anything. Can't say anything without you whining about 'the right time' and 'he's not ready.'"
"I don't whine."
"You absolutely whine. You're whining right now. This is whining."
The barista stared at him.
Shade crossed his arms — or tried to.
One arm phased through the other.
He muttered something under his breath.
A long pause.
Then, quieter.
"If it weren't for that old lady, I wouldn't linger here, tsk."
The barista's expression didn't change.
But something in his eyes shifted.
"The old lady."
"Yeah, the old lady."
Shade's voice dropped.
Lost its humor.
"She's the reason I'm stuck like this. The reason I can only watch. The reason he doesn't remember."
"Careful."
"I'm always careful."
Shade's hollow eyes met his.
"That's the problem. We're all so careful. And he's still suffering."
The barista didn't respond.
Shade sighed — a sound like wind through dead leaves.
Tick tock.
The café was quiet again.
The barista picked up the rag.
Wiped the same spot.
Waited.