Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 30: Chapter 30

That night, the rooftop was theirs.
The world below was hushed — the fields asleep, the pines breathing, the old chimneys casting long silhouettes in the moonlight.
Amy had brought a thick knitted blanket, two steaming mugs of jasmine tea, and a half-melted chocolate bar that she’d “accidentally” found in Theo’s locked snack drawer. The lock had been surprisingly easy to crack.
Dahlia sat beside her, legs curled beneath her, her braid half-unraveled from the training session earlier. Her hair caught the silver starlight like ink sliding through water.
For a while, they just sat.
Crickets sang in the garden. The faintest trace of honeysuckle drifted from below. One shooting star stitched a pale arc across the horizon, and neither of them made a wish — they were already sitting in one.
Amy finally broke the silence. “I keep thinking it’s over. The running. The hiding. But then something else starts.”
Dahlia didn’t answer at first. She traced the rim of her mug with her thumb, feeling the warmth seep into her skin.
“It’s not over,” she said at last. “It’s changing. That’s scarier sometimes.”
Amy turned, her eyes reflecting stars. “Do you ever wish you were… normal?”
Dahlia gave a soft laugh. “Sometimes. When I see little girls with scraped knees, and they cry until someone kisses it better. That simplicity. I never had that.”
Amy leaned into her, shoulder to shoulder. “You give it to them, though. That comfort. That healing.”
Dahlia swallowed. “But it costs. Every time I use it. Not just energy — it’s like I’m pouring a part of my soul into the world. Into the petals. I feel thinner afterward. Like a page read too many times.”
Amy reached over and gently took her hand.
“Then I’ll be your bookmark,” she whispered. “When you get tired, I’ll hold the place.”
Dahlia turned to her, startled by the softness, the metaphor, the exact rightness of it.
“I mean it,” Amy added, voice quieter now. “I’ve seen too many people want you for what you can do. I want you for who you are.”
Dahlia blinked hard, emotions rising like tidewater.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”
Amy smiled. “I do. Because I need it too.”
They sipped tea again. A long, comfortable silence settled — the kind that only happens with people who’ve walked through fire and chosen to sit beside each other anyway.
Then Dahlia added, almost shyly, “Do you remember that night in Nairobi?”
Amy laughed immediately. “With the mango smoothies and the bookstore cat?”
“Yes!” Dahlia grinned, her voice lighter. “And you spent forty minutes arguing with that old man about whether poetry counted as spellwork.”
“I stand by it. Words change people more than weapons do.”
“And then we bought those earrings and pretended we were rich for one night.”
“We were rich. In mango and words and glitter.”
Dahlia’s laughter rang clear across the rooftop. “I needed that day. More than I realized.”
Amy nudged her. “I think about it all the time. Like that silly day at the mall in Cape Town, remember? You got obsessed with that glow-in-the-dark flower crown.”
“It glowed, Amy.”
“You wore it to a pizza place.”
“It was enchanted.”
“It was from a gift shop.”
They were both laughing now, leaning against each other, tea forgotten.
“I still have that flower crown,” Dahlia said, quieting. “It’s in my trunk. With the photo booth pictures. And the napkin you wrote on when we made the promise.”
Amy blinked. “The ‘wherever you go, I follow’ promise?”
Dahlia nodded.
Amy didn’t speak for a moment. She just tightened her grip on Dahlia’s hand.
“I meant it then,” she said. “And I mean it more now.”
The stars above shifted ever so slightly — or maybe the girls had. Two hearts under one sky, no longer just surviving but becoming.
Dahlia rested her head against Amy’s shoulder. “I don’t know what’s coming next.”
Amy tilted her head toward her. “Then let’s find out together.”
And for the first time in a long time, the rooftop didn’t feel like a hiding place.
It felt like the beginning of something.