บททั้งหมดของ THE VILLAINESS REMEMBERED ME:In Every Timeline, She Chose De: บทที่ 131 - บทที่ 140

The spring that followed Morwen's seventieth year as keeper of the garden brought a message from the eastern provinces.It arrived not by letter, but by witness—a young woman named Solara who had trained at the House of Gold Flowers and had walked for three weeks to reach the Academy. She came through the garden gate at dawn, her face weathered from the road, her hands cupped around a small pot containing a cutting from the great gold flower at the relay site."The fifth bloom has opened," Solara said, kneeling before the stone bench where Morwen sat. "Elara's granddaughter sent it to me. The watcher's attention at the relay site is stronger than ever. The witnesses say the flower is singing—not in words, in light. The colors shift with the watcher's emotions."Morwen leaned forward. Elara had been gone for years now, passed into the soil like the Archivist and Clara before her. But her granddaughter, a woman named Elara the Younger, had carried on the work."The fifth bloom," Morwen

The summer after Seren's burial was the most beautiful Morwen had ever seen.The gold flowers blazed with a light that seemed to hold all the warmth of the sun, and the witnesses who came to the garden spoke of feeling the presence of the dead more strongly than ever before. Winter said the watcher was learning to bridge the gap between worlds—not to bring the dead back, but to make their presence felt in the light of the blooms.Morwen sat on the stone bench each morning, her hands on the gold flowers, her eyes on the horizon. She did not speak much anymore. Her voice was weak, her breath short, and she had learned to conserve her energy for the things that mattered: watching the sun rise, feeling the watcher's attention, listening to the voices of the witnesses.Iriel had taken over the day-to-day running of the school. She moved through the garden with the particular grace of someone who had been holding space for decades, her presence steady and calm. The witnesses trusted her, an

The first year of Winter's keepership passed like a slow exhale—measured, deliberate, full of the particular patience that came from tending something that would outlast her.Solenne had become the school's heart, not through effort but through presence. She sat with the witnesses who came to the garden, listened to their stories, and wrote them down in notebooks that glowed with the watcher's light. Her script was unlike any other—the letters seemed to pulse, to breathe, to hold the memory of the words long after they were written."She has a gift," Iriel said one autumn afternoon, watching Solenne write beneath the gold flowers.Winter nodded. "The watcher speaks through her pen. The words are not hers alone."Iriel was quiet for a moment. "The watcher is learning to write its own story."Winter looked at the gold flowers pulsing around them. "The watcher has always had a story. But it needed someone to give it words."---Solenne's notebooks accumulated on the stone bench—dozens of

The autumn after the watcher's library revealed itself brought a new kind of witness to the garden.They came not to learn the anchor ability, not to study the history, but simply to read. They sat among the gold flowers, their hands on the petals, and they closed their eyes and let the watcher show them stories. Some wept. Some laughed. Some sat in silence for hours, their faces peaceful, as though they had found something they had been searching for all their lives.Solenne watched them from the stone bench, her notebooks stacked around her, her pen still. She had written so much that her hands ached, but the watcher kept showing her more—memories from before the loop, from the earliest days of the world, from the moments when the watcher had first learned to pay attention."The watcher is exhausting itself," Winter said one morning, finding Solenne with her head bowed over her notebook.Solenne looked up. Her eyes were red, her face pale. "It wants to tell everything. It has been s

The summer after Solenne completed the second volume, the garden was fuller than ever.Witnesses came from provinces so distant that their journeys had taken months. They brought cuttings of gold flowers from their own gardens, stories from their own villages, names of loved ones who had been touched by the watcher's attention. The stone bench had become a gathering place, not just for teaching, but for the sharing of memory.Solenne sat at the bench each morning, the two volumes beside her, her notebook open to a fresh page. The second volume—the story of the school, of Winter's keepership, of Iriel and Kaelen and Ash—had been copied by scribes and distributed to every satellite garden. The witnesses read it aloud in their circles, and the gold flowers pulsed in response, as though the watcher itself was listening."The watcher is pleased," Winter said one afternoon, finding Solenne with her head bowed over her notebook.Solenne looked up. Her eyes were tired, but bright. "The watche