The Price Of Gold

06. faces from past

vi.
OPHELIA ARCHIBALD
23rd July, 4:30 p.m.

Dirt packed beneath my fingernails as I pressed each seed into the soil, my hands trembling just enough for me to notice.

The afternoon was quiet, sunlight feeling warm and the garden felt like the only place where time hadn't stopped clawing at my heels. The faint hum of a song from the speakers on the porch made me swing lightly. I had my playlist ready; music was always there. I needed it more today. To blur all my thoughts.

Today, I turned eighteen.

It wasn't a big deal, really. No party or cake, no fuss. Just me, the garden, and the same thing I did every year, five plants to honor... no, to remember my family. Every year since I was eleven, I'd planted five new seeds on my birthday. Thirty-five now plants now, each one a part of me and of them, the siblings I knew as well as I knew myself. Once.

I dug a small trench for the rosemary first, letting the scent of its spindly leaves it reminded me of Julian. Strong, sharp, the kind of plant that stayed green through winters and summers alike. Julian had been somewhat like that, someone solid and rooted.

I glanced over my shoulder, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as I felt as if someone was watching me. The curtains from my window shifted, just slightly, but I caught nothing. Just then another harsh breeze hit and the curtains shifted again, feeling a bit ease, I forced my attention back to the ground, letting my fingers sink deeper into the soil.

Next, I placed red salvia in the soil for Aurelia. She was fight. The red blossoms would bleed against the green of the garden, just as she left her mark on everything she touched, fierce and unforgettable.

Alastair was ivy. Hardy, sneaking into crevices and cracks, binding itself to the walls around it. I pressed the seed down, letting it sink as ivy does, hidden at first but destined to overtake whatever it touched.

Then I carefully sprinkled seeds for the marigolds for Carver. Marigolds were small but bright, resilient, needing sunlight to thrive and open up. The were the ones we always overlooked but also one of the most beautiful ones, they reminded me of a younger Carver.

Lavender was for me. Its scent would linger, soft but constant, like a balm, it was to keep breathing, to keep going. It was gentle strength, the kind I needed to remember, even when the world felt bruised.

Finally, chamomile for what we'd lost. Or maybe for what I still wanted to save. Chamomile was delicate, but it would grow back, again and again. It was a soldier, a healer.

I leaned back, brushing dirt off my hands. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass door leading back inside, my reflection clear against the polished surface. The pink sundress I'd pulled on this morning hung just right. I tugged at the hem, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle, as if that could iron out the strange emptiness that seemed to stick to me today.

Eighteen.

And what did it even mean?

I'd woken up with the same dull ache, the same feeling that birthdays were just another way to mark the passing of time. Another year lived, another year to survive. I'd felt a sting this morning when even Carver—my own twin—hadn't bothered to wish me and how he ignored me when I wished him. It seemed birthdays didn't matter much to him either, not anymore.

Birthdays used to be magic. They used to mean something to me, everything to me. I closed my eyes for a moment.

When we were kids, birthdays were a family affair. The five of us together, making an absolute mess of things. Julian would take charge, making sure everyone had a part in the celebration. Alastair hated taking orders from him and would sneak off halfway through whatever we were planning, usually returning with some contraband—sparklers one year, chocolate cake another. It was messy and chaotic, but it felt real. It felt so nice.