Chapter Two: The Garden That Doesn’t Bloom

Emilia didn’t mean to find the garden.

She had only meant to escape the silence of the house, just for a moment. Her duties were done, and Rosa hadn’t given her more work, which was rare. So she wandered, quietly, always quietly, until she found the glass door at the end of the west corridor.

It creaked when she pushed it open.

The garden was surrounded by high walls. The air smelled faintly of rain and dust. The flowers were overgrown, untamed, and some were long dead.

But it was beautiful in the way forgotten things are beautiful.

Safe, even.

Emilia sat on the stone bench in the corner and looked up at the cloudy sky. For a few precious minutes, the weight on her chest felt lighter. Her hands stopped trembling.

She didn’t know why she started to sing.

Just a little hum. A tune her mother used to hum when she thought no one was listening.

Her voice was soft. A whisper.

But it carried.

Lucien was passing the hall when he heard it.

He stopped.

Turned.

He never walked this way, never had a reason. That wing of the house was old, filled with memories and things he didn’t need. But now…

He followed the sound.

The door to the garden was half open, and there she was. Sitting alone. Head tilted back, eyes closed, lips moving to a melody that didn’t belong in a house like his.

For the briefest moment, Lucien didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then the sound stopped.

Emilia opened her eyes, and saw him.

She stood up instantly, startled, eyes wide with fear. “I…I didn’t mean to…”

“I didn’t say you could be here,” Lucien said, his voice low, unreadable.

“I’m sorry.” She stepped back. “I thought it was abandoned. I didn’t touch anything, I swear.”

Lucien walked into the garden, his shoes crunching against the gravel. “No one comes here.”

“I can leave.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked around at the dead roses and tangled ivy. The bench where she sat. The place he never let himself visit.

Then he said, “You were singing.”

She lowered her head. “I didn’t mean to. I forgot where I was.”

He stared at her. “Your voice is quiet.”

She swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to be heard.”

“Then why sing?”

She blinked. “To feel… less alone.”

Silence.

Lucien glanced at the garden again.

“My mother used to sit here,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “She used to sing too.”

Emilia didn’t respond. She didn’t know how.

He looked at her. “You can come here. When you’re done with your duties. But don’t sing where anyone else can hear you.”

Emilia hesitated. “Why?”

“Because softness is dangerous here.” His gaze was sharp again. Cold. “And it won’t protect you.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to leave.

But then, at the last second, he said, “You don’t sound like you belong in this world.”

And then he was gone.

***

That night, Emilia returned to the garden after dinner. Alone. She didn’t sing. But she sat on the bench and stared up at the same cloudy sky, wondering about the man who ruled this house like a ghost, and why he had stopped to listen at all.

She didn’t know that Lucien stood in the shadows upstairs, behind his window, watching the girl he didn’t understand.

And he hated that he was starting to want to.