The Garden of Decay

Chapter 6

The days passed in a strange blur. (Y/N) found herself falling into the quiet rhythms of the Garden, the initial tension that had gripped her since arriving beginning to ease with each new dawn. The pain from her injuries had mostly faded, thanks to Elias's gentle care and the strange salves he applied to her wounds. Though she was still cautious, keeping Thorne's warning at the forefront of her mind, the surreal tranquility of the Garden made it difficult to cling to the fear she had felt when she first stumbled through the gates.

The days stretched into weeks. (Y/N) woke each morning to the soft sounds of birds and rustling leaves, the air always tinged with the scent of wildflowers and freshly turned earth. There was a serenity here that felt so starkly different from the world she had fled, from the ever-present terror of the undead and the chaos of survival.

The cabin she had been assigned became her sanctuary. Its small, cozy interior had grown familiar, the bed a welcome retreat after days spent walking through the Garden or helping out with various tasks. The simplicity of life here was intoxicating — each day blending into the next with a comforting routine. She had always thought the apocalypse would strip away all remnants of peace, but the Garden seemed to defy that, creating a bubble where the horrors outside no longer reached.

Still, it wasn't easy at first. The residents of the Garden, while welcoming, kept a distance from her, their smiles warm but their eyes watchful, as though waiting for her to prove herself. Conversations were polite, but always brief. There were murmurs in the corners of communal spaces, whispers exchanged just out of earshot. She could feel their curiosity about her, their subtle wariness. Being an outsider here meant navigating unspoken rules, and though no one directly told her what those rules were, she quickly learned by observing the others.

Her integration into the community was slow. At first, she was given small tasks — helping to tend the flowers, cleaning the communal kitchen, or assisting with the children who ran through the Garden's paths with laughter that echoed like a distant memory of the world before. The more she contributed, the more the residents began to open up to her. They started to greet her with genuine smiles, no longer tempered with caution, and occasionally, someone would linger to chat a little longer than before.

But even as she settled in, (Y/N) couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. In quiet moments, when she sat alone in the shade of a tree or walked the perimeter of the Garden's walls, she would hear whispers — fragments of conversations that hinted at things unspoken.

"They never came back..."
"... gone for days now..."
"... better not to ask..."

When she tried to ask directly, the answers were always evasive. There was an unspoken understanding among the residents that certain topics weren't to be broached. And one of those topics was what happened to people who tried to leave.

The first time (Y/N) overheard it was during her second week, when she was passing the communal dining area. Two women were huddled together, their voices hushed as they washed vegetables at the long stone sink. (Y/N) had been assigned to help them, but they hadn't yet noticed her approach.

"They're saying David and Rachel never made it back," one of the women whispered, her hands working briskly under the cold stream of water.

The other woman paused, glancing over her shoulder as though afraid someone might overhear. "They went to the woods, didn't they? You know what happens when people wander too far."

(Y/N) slowed her steps, her heart skipping a beat as she strained to hear more.

"Lucien said they'll send out a search party," the first woman continued. "But no one's ever come back, not really. Not if they've gone that far."

The second woman shook her head, her expression grim. "Better to stay where it's safe. The Garden provides, and we shouldn't question it."

Before (Y/N) could catch more, the women noticed her approaching and fell silent. Their smiles were quick, but forced, as they handed her a basket of washed vegetables to take back to the kitchen. The conversation shifted to mundane things — the weather, the harvest — but the unease settled deep into her bones. What had they meant? Why didn't anyone come back?

From then on, (Y/N) was more careful. She listened more than she spoke, her curiosity growing alongside her wariness. There was something the Garden residents weren't telling her, and as much as she wanted to believe in the peace and safety this place offered, there was an undercurrent of fear that she couldn't ignore.

Lucien, ever the charming and reassuring leader, had an answer for everything. Whenever the topic of the world outside came up, he would smile gently, his voice soothing as he spoke of the dangers beyond the walls — the undead, the scavengers, the desolation. "The Garden is a sanctuary," he would say, his tone always calm, always confident. "It's here to protect us. We're safer together, within these walls."

And it was true, to an extent. The undead never breached the Garden's borders. The walls seemed to stand as an impenetrable fortress against the horrors that roamed outside. But as (Y/N) grew more familiar with the Garden's routine, she began to notice things that didn't quite add up. People disappeared for stretches of time — search parties, they said, or scouting missions. But they rarely returned, and when they did, they came back changed, quieter, more withdrawn.

Elias, who had become something of a quiet confidant during her time here, was the most elusive of all. He would speak freely about the plants, the way the Garden worked, and the routines of daily life, but the moment she tried to dig deeper — about the whispers, about the people who had left — his responses became vague, his eyes clouded with a distant sadness.

"I don't know everything," he'd say softly, avoiding her gaze. "But it's better not to dwell on those who've gone. The Garden is our future now."

Even Thorne, who had initially been so cold and distant, seemed to grow accustomed to her presence. He never fully warmed to her, but over the weeks, he became less brusque, his instructions more direct rather than hostile. He remained protective, often hovering nearby when she worked with the others, as if ensuring she wouldn't step out of line. Once, when they were working together to repair one of the Garden's wooden gates, he'd given her a pointed look.

"You're doing good here," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Just remember what I said. Don't get too comfortable."

It was the most he'd said to her in weeks, and though his words were meant as a warning, there was an odd comfort in them. Thorne didn't sugarcoat anything. He didn't try to reassure her the way Lucien did. He simply spoke the truth as he saw it, and in a strange way, (Y/N) found herself appreciating that honesty, even if it left her with more questions than answers.

As time passed, (Y/N) began to carve out a role for herself in the Garden. She helped in the kitchens, in the fields, even occasionally with the children who seemed to find joy in the simplest things despite the bleakness of the world beyond. The residents no longer treated her as an outsider, and she began to recognize faces, to learn names, to feel a sense of belonging.

But always, in the back of her mind, there lingered the whispers — those half-heard conversations about people who had tried to leave and never returned. The Garden's peace was fragile, held together by an unspoken understanding that certain things were better left unexamined.

And so, (Y/N) played her part, smiling and working alongside the others, her steps lighter as she found comfort in the routine. But beneath the surface, the tension remained, a quiet hum that pulsed through the Garden, reminding her that this paradise was not as perfect as it seemed.

Weeks turned into a blur of tasks and quiet reflection. The Garden's beauty became familiar, its strange allure seeping into her bones, and yet, with every passing day, (Y/N) found herself questioning more and more. How long could she stay? What was really keeping them here?

And what would happen if she ever tried to leave?

As (Y/N) settled into her new life in the Garden, the sense of community she had longed for grew stronger. But with it, so did the unease, the feeling that something darker lurked just beneath the surface. The Garden provided for them all, yes, but at what cost?