You Can Ask The Flowers
The first sign of corruption appeared on a Tuesday morning in early April, when Iris found the midnight orchids weeping tears of black sap that burned like acid against her skin. The ethereal flowers that had sung her to sleep for months now emitted discordant wails that set her teeth on edge, their voices cracking with pain as something invisible ate away at their supernatural essence.
"It's not natural," she whispered, her hands trembling as she examined the withering petals. Through her connection to the garden's consciousness, she could feel the plant's agony, its desperate attempts to purge whatever poison was spreading through its delicate system. "Something is attacking them from with