The Blind Gardener

Chapter 2-To those who only know how to love

Oh. I thought, looking up and meeting his clouded eyes again. They were sad, not focusing on anything in particular. But it felt as if they were piercing through to my very soul.

"I'm sorry," I whispered once more.

He bowed his head, exhaling a sigh heavy with loss, regret, and sadness. Is he mad? Instead, he lifted his face, and smiled—a sad, wistful smile. A faint dimple appeared on one cheek, a one-sided dimple just like Alexa's. Everything about him reminded me of Alexa. Even though I was only six years old, her features were etched in my memory as vividly as if I had seen her yesterday.

"How could I blame a six-year-old for the death of my mother?" he finally said. I sat there, shocked, eyes wide. We remained silent for what felt like an eternity. What am I going to do? He seems like a person who only knows how to love, unable to harbor anger even when he wants to.

"But your eyes..." I whispered.

"My blindness wasn't caused by a six-year-old; it was caused by a fire, a fire that was an accident," he replied. Silence enveloped us. It wasn't an awkward silence but a comforting one, like the promise of dawn after a long night. Then, like a needle piercing the skin, an alarm shattered the stillness, and we both jumped.

"Oh, sorry about that. I set alarms quite often," he chuckled softly. "Say, could you tell me what this alarm is for?" He pulled out his phone and held it up to my face. On the screen was a name, time, and date. I stopped the alarm and read the name: Dr. Hart.

"Dr. Hart, it says Dr. Hart" I answered.

"Shit, I completely forgot," he said, standing up quickly and grabbing his cane from the floor.

"Well, I have to go. It was nice meeting you—"

"Sophie."

"Sophia Sonnet," I corrected.

He smiled again, his teeth shining beautifully, and his dimple smiling right back. Then he left, just like that, leaving behind wilted flowers and the remnants of a rainstorm.

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I should probably get back. I looked up at the sky, rain falling on my face, cleansing away my thoughts and worries. Since he left, I've been sitting here, in the same place, for perhaps thirty minutes or so. I can't keep track of time, but it feels like thirty minutes. Yet, it could have been five. Time has always been elusive, slipping through my fingers like water. But I'm not at school, where time is non-existent; I'm at Alexa's grave, and time seems irrelevant. Alexa's son was here, I thought. The realization surprised me. I never imagined that today, of all days, I would meet him. He's just as beautiful as Alexa. I remember when I was younger, dreaming of meeting Alexa's son. He would stand there, alone and sorrowful, tears tracing his cheeks, looking at me with anger in his eyes, as if he wanted to kill me. The same anger my mother looks at me with every day since the accident.

I remember waking up in the hospital with no one beside me, no one to tell me that it was going to be okay. I remember crying so much, even though I didn't know what had happened. I think I just cried because I knew, deep within me, that something terrible had occurred.

The day I came back home was silent and uneventful. Nothing happened. I would've preferred screaming or yelling, but there was only silence. No one looked my way, and it took me a while to realize I was being ignored. We never know what's worse until we experience it, and there I was, young and innocent, feeling alone, yearning for love, wanting to be loved, not knowing that my only source of love was gone from this world. I still get sad thinking about that moment. But whenever I think about it, I feel lost. Sometimes it doesn't feel real.

It took me a while to realize the rain had stopped. I should head back. The clouds were parting, revealing slivers of sunlight that danced on the damp earth. I stood up, brushing the dirt off my clothes, and took one last look at Alexa's grave. The flowers that had been planted were beginning to bloom, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the gray stones surrounding them. I turned away, walking slowly, the weight of memories pressing on my heart.