The present (fourteen years later).
I woke up, not too late, not too early. Every day I wake up, it seems like I've lost something new. I've always despised this sensation—a blend of dread and confusion over something elusive. My phone lights up with a notification. It's from Mother.
I found out from your father that you failed your midterms. You're not going to graduate from college if you keep this up.
Damn. What did I expect? Dad can't keep secrets. I dismiss the thought; it's irrelevant now. I prepare for my daily walk. I do it every day, regardless of the weather, because nothing can deter me from visiting Alexa's grave.
Alexa's grave lies ahead. As always, my poetry from yesterday is missing. I wonder where it disappears to. If I were six years old again, I might have believed Alexa came from heaven each night to take it. But at twenty years old, such childish fantasies elude me; they're figments of my imagination. I sit down, paper and pen in hand, and I write. I write for Alexa, for the past, for myself, for those willing to listen, and for the wind, which steals my poetry from Alexa's grave and offers it to the earth.
Perhaps it's the dust, the familiar routine I endure daily, or the recent failure of my midterms, or even Mother's morning text. But suddenly, tears begin to flow—as if I were six years old again. In that moment, I cry, envisioning Alexa running towards me. I cry for the boy who lost his mother because of me. I cry because it's all my fault.
"Why are you crying in front of my mum's grave?" I hear a voice—a man's voice, deep yet gentle, strangely familiar...
I lift my tear-stained eyes. The man stands tall, his figure sculpted yet delicate. His short, curly black hair, reminiscent of Alexa's straight, silky locks, frames a face that could be mistaken for a divine creation. Faint freckles trace the corners of his eyes, which shine brightly despite their cloudy appearance. I wonder what color they were before.
"You're her son?" I blurt out, regretting it immediately as tears flood my eyes and face. I bury my face in my arms and sob once more.
"Hey, hey, hey," the gentle man says, crouching down to meet my gaze. "I don't understand. Why are you crying?"
His warm, reassuring eyes seem to penetrate my soul, offering solace.
"I-it was all my fault," I manage to stammer between sobs.
"What's your fault?" he asks softly.
"Y-your mother d-d-d... died b-because o-o-of m-mee," I struggle to say the word 'died.'
"Died?" he fills in the silence. "Tell me, how is my mother's death your fault?"
"I..." I can't find the words, but his gentle presence encourages me. "It's all my fault. I should've never gone to that party. I should've never played with the candle, even when she told me not to. I should've listened to her," I barely manage to say.
He remains silent for a long moment, his clouded eyes filled with recognition.
"You were six years old," he whispers so softly I almost miss it. His sorrow makes me almost believe it wasn't my fault. Glancing down for the first time, I notice the bouquet in his hands with a card that reads, I miss you mum.
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Author's notice
sorry this chapter is so short, the next chapters will be longer, I promise <3
YOU ARE READING
The Blind Gardener
RomancePlease forgive me. I'm sorry. But it's okay! whoever said you were wrong? I'll give you a bouquet, and fill them with songs. But because of me you died, dissolved and dried, tucked away in a shade of umbra. And because of me you cried, And she died...
