Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 57: Chapter 57

The island hummed softly, alive with flowers that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Dahlia sat cross-legged on the mossy earth, bathed in warm golden light. Vines curled gently around her ankles like loyal pets, and petals floated down from the canopy like snow. The garden loved her. She felt it in her bones, even if she didn’t remember why.
Around her, the others gathered — faces both familiar and strange.
They took turns, one by one.
Christian was first.
He flopped dramatically beside her, sighing as if exhausted.
“You know,” he said, nudging her shoulder, “you once made me eat a flower.”
Her eyes widened. “I did?”
“Yep. Said it was a healing flower. And it was!” he grinned. “My stomachache was gone in minutes. But you also told me it might make my voice sound like a frog for a week. I croaked every sentence for hours just in case.”
Dahlia giggled, and he grinned wider. “That laugh. That’s you. You always laughed like the sun couldn’t help but chase you.”
She leaned into his side. “You’re funny.”
“You thought so,” he said gently. “And you always believed in the best parts of me… even when I didn’t.”
Theo bounced in next, holding a paper crown made of reeds and daisies. “You used to call me your knight,” he declared proudly, placing the crown on her head. “Said I had to protect you from dragons.”
Her eyes lit up. “Are there dragons here?”
“There were,” he said, solemnly serious. “But you tamed them. With kindness and singing and really scary vines.”
She blinked slowly. “I like you.”
He beamed. “You always did. You said I made the world less boring. And I promised to keep you laughing even when everything else hurt.” He leaned in closer. “And I still will. Even now.”
Eliot waited until the others quieted. He knelt before her, took her hand, and simply said, “Do you know what your favorite star is?”
She tilted her head. “Stars have favorites?”
“You said the one that looks lonely,” he replied. “Because even the lonely ones are beautiful.”
Her lips parted, emotion flickering in her eyes. “Did I really say that?”
“You did.” He smiled faintly. “And you looked at me like you knew what I was thinking before I even said it. You always knew when I needed quiet. You sat beside me in silence, not asking anything — just being there. That’s how I knew you loved me.”
She placed her hand in his. “I don’t remember, but… I think I still do.”
William approached slowly, his usual calm a little cracked. He crouched down, pulled a folded paper from his pocket — an old drawing, weathered and torn.
“You drew this,” he said, showing her a picture of a tree with laughing faces hidden in its bark. “You said it was our family tree. That I was a branch you planted.”
She traced the sketch with small fingers. “I like trees.”
“You always did,” he murmured. “You said they were like people. Sometimes broken, sometimes bent, but always growing toward the light.”
He swallowed hard. “I never had a granddaughter until you. But when you chose to heal me — even when you didn’t have to — you became mine. In every way that counts.”
Amy sat beside her next. Her hands trembled slightly as she passed Dahlia a necklace made of woven sunflowers and seashells.
“You made this for me the day I told you my parents forgot my birthday,” she whispered. “You said we’d start a new tradition. Sunbloom Day. Celebrating friendship and fierce girls.”
Dahlia’s lower lip quivered. “You were my best friend.”
Tears slipped down Amy’s cheek. “Still am. And I never stopped looking for you. Never stopped loving you. You protected me more than once — even when you were scared.”
Dahlia reached out and hugged her. “Don’t be scared anymore. I’m here now.”
Amy sobbed softly into her shoulder. “You always said that to me…”
Markus hung back until the others finished. He stepped forward quietly, his dark coat dusted with pollen, his voice rough like a page torn too many times.
“You don’t remember me,” he said, not a question. “That’s okay.”
Dahlia blinked up at him, confusion flickering across her face. “I... feel something. Like you were in a dream I had.”
He nodded. “You called me your shadow once. Said I always stood behind you so the world could only see your light.”
He knelt, his hands clasped together like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “You changed me, Dahlia. I used to believe in war. You taught me to believe in mercy.”
She studied his face for a long time. “You feel sad.”
“I am,” he admitted. “But not because you forgot. I’m just glad you’re still here.”
Antonio was last.
He sat beside her in silence for several minutes. His hand wrapped around hers like it was glass. She turned to him, curious.
“Are you my daddy?” she asked quietly.
His breath hitched.
“I was,” he said softly. “And I still am. If you’ll have me.”
She reached out and touched his face. “You look like someone I dreamed about. Someone who watched the garden grow.”
He closed his eyes. “That was me. I watched every step. Every blossom. Every smile. You were my miracle, Dahlia.”
“I feel safe when you talk,” she whispered. “Even if I don’t remember everything, my heart feels like it knows you.”
He pulled her gently into his arms. “That’s enough, my little bloom. That’s everything.”
That night, as the stars glittered overhead and the island garden glowed faintly with flowerlight, Dahlia curled up in a nest of petals and warmth. Her memories were still distant — like music heard through a wall — but she knew she was loved.
She knew she belonged.
And in her dreams, the flowers whispered names…
Sunbloom. Knight. Shield. Root. Flame. Heart.
The garden would help her remember.
And the world would wait.