The Gardener

You wake in a room that shouldn’t exist. There’s no window, but the wallpaper is printed with tiny yellow flowers. The air is too still, the silence too curated. A single bulb hums overhead, wrapped in a wire cage. You sit up slowly. You’re not alone.

Across from you, three girls glance your way.

A girl with frizzy ginger curls looks up from a book and gives a small, almost broken smile. “You’re awake,” she whispers. “He’ll be happy.”

Next to her, a pale girl with long, braided dark hair folds a neatly pressed napkin with shaking fingers. She doesn’t speak.

In the corner, the third girl—her makeup smudged, eyes rimmed in red—scoffs. “Great. Another one.”

The door unlocks with a click.

Heavy footsteps. Measured. Confident.

He steps in holding a tray with four cups of tea. He's dressed in clean slacks and a soft gray sweater, like a man who might work in an office—or a church.

His eyes land on you and his face lights up. “There she is…” he says softly. “My beautiful Lily.”

You open your mouth. To scream? To ask where you are? But his voice cuts in, warm and practiced.

“No need for panic. I know it’s overwhelming at first. You were out longer than I expected—trauma, even when necessary, is still trauma. But you’re safe now.”

He kneels beside you and gently sets the tea on a small tray-table. Steam curls upward like a ritual.

“You’ve met the others, haven’t you?” he gestures around the room.

He points first to the red-haired girl. “That’s Rosie. She’s my calm one. Always knows when to stay quiet.”

She gives a weak smile.

“The serious one in the braid? That’s Sunny. She likes things neat. She's very good at following rules.”

Sunny keeps her head down. You think you see a bruise fading near her jawline.

“And the fighter?” He gestures to the one glaring in the corner. “That’s Danny. Short for Dandelion. She hasn’t quite learned gratitude yet.”

Danny flips him off behind his back. He doesn’t react.

“And you…” He cups your cheek in his palm. His skin is warm. “You’re Lily. I've been watching you for weeks. The way you laugh when no one else does. The way you act strong but carry the world in your eyes. You don’t belong out there. You belong here, with your sisters.”

He strokes your hair once, lovingly. Delicately. Possessively.

“I know this will take adjustment. That’s okay. Everyone resists at first. But the world out there? It’s full of rot. Noise. Men who don’t understand what beauty is. I’m not like them.”

He stands slowly and walks to the door.

“Breakfast is at seven. Tea is always at four. Clean yourselves. Be kind to each other. And please, don’t try the door again.”

His voice darkens—not angry, just disappointed.

“Flowers don’t bloom in chaos. They bloom in order. I give you that. Don’t make me become a gardener with thorns.”

The door clicks shut behind him. You hear three locks engage.

Behind you, Rosie whispers, “Don’t cry where he can hear. He’ll think you’re ungrateful.”

Danny mutters, “Another damn petal for his sick little bouquet.”