Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 58: Chapter 58
You are reading Dahlia and the Garden of Light, Chapter 58: Chapter 58. Read more chapters of Dahlia and the Garden of Light.
Inside the Dream
Dahlia wandered through a field of glass petals—transparent and sharp, yet somehow soft beneath her feet. Her small hands brushed against flowers that whispered names she didn’t know. The sky was amber. Time felt liquid.
In the center of the field, she saw a child.
Not her.
And yet… her.
The girl was sitting on a cold metal table beneath fluorescent lights. Her hair was soft and pale, almost colorless from the sterile lighting. Her eyes were large and luminous—violet at the center, then turning green at the edges like leaves soaking in rain.
Her skin glowed faintly, but only just.
That glow would fade in three days.
No one noticed it.
“Another drop-off,” a nurse muttered. “No paperwork. No emergency contact. She’s looks barely 6 months ?”
“She didn’t cry,” said a night guard. “She just stared. Quietest baby I’ve ever seen.”
“She’s not blinking,” the nurse added nervously.
“She’s probably in shock.”
Three Orphanages Later
The dream shifted. The child grew.
Two, maybe three years old now—her hair had turned honey-brown and soft, always a little tangled. Her eyes, still violet-green, watched everything. Curious. Quiet.
Other children played loudly. Dahlia sat beneath a tree, whispering to a line of ants.
“She’s strange,” a boy whispered to another.
“She makes flowers grow from the carpet,” a girl added, voice low and fearful. “She’s weird.”
A kind girl named Lina took her hand once.
“Wanna play kitchen?”
Dahlia nodded and made pretend flowers bloom in the plastic cups.
The older kids called her “Moonchild.”
She didn't mind.
She never got in trouble. She never raised her voice.
She was always watching.
Once, during a power cut, a rose bloomed in the dark.
They blamed a teacher.
Dahlia stayed quiet.
The Second Transfer
“She doesn’t speak much,” said one file.
“She seems to avoid adults,” said another. “But no behavioral issues. Good with younger children.”
“She fixed my hamster,” a tiny boy named Kobi said. “He was dying. I cried. She picked him up and now he’s okay again.”
That story never made it to the report.
A Quiet Drift
The orphanages blurred together—faces came and went. Some children adopted, some ran away, some returned. Dahlia grew like the trees she watched, quietly, inwardly.
There were long, quiet afternoons where she’d sit in the yard with a forgotten book and a dandelion.
There were cold nights where she’d hum herself to sleep under a moth-chewed blanket.
Sometimes she cried and didn’t know why.
She was 4 now. Her powers were stronger. She could sense when someone was about to cry. She could feel pain like it was weather in the air.
So she helped.
Quietly. Secretly.
A scraped knee. A bird with a broken wing. A teacher with a sprained wrist.
Small touches.
The pain faded.
No one suspected her.
The Final Transfer – To the Outskirts of the City
The building was older. Warmer. A little more forgotten.
There were fewer children. More windows. Less noise.
And for once, a sense of peace.
The woman who ran it was named Miss Karina—middle-aged, always wearing mismatched socks and a headscarf with birds on it.
She bent down the day Dahlia arrived and said, “You don’t have to talk. Just grow.”
That night, Dahlia made three wildflowers grow out of the concrete beneath her bed.
The other children here were quieter too.
There was Liam, age 7, who collected marbles and believed ghosts lived in the ceiling.
There was Tami, age 5, who spoke with a stutter and held Dahlia’s hand everywhere.
And Victor, age 10, who had seen too much and spoke too little.
Victor once found Dahlia kneeling in the garden, humming to herself as sunflowers twisted toward her like cats.
“You’re not like the rest of us,” he said, not mean, just truthful.
“I’m still here,” she replied softly.
Victor nodded. “Good.”
Age Four – The Adoption
One day, a man with careful hands and dark eyes visited.
He didn’t smile right away.
He knelt down in the garden where Dahlia sat feeding worms to a robin.
“My name is Antonio,” he said. “I’m not here to take you away. I’m here to offer a home.”
Dahlia blinked up at him.
Then looked at the robin.
Then at her dirt-stained fingers.
“Do you have plants?” she asked.
He smiled. “I have a whole greenhouse.”
That was enough.
Miss Karina kissed her forehead the day she left.
“You’re not just a flower, little one,” she whispered. “You’re the rain too. The kind that makes things grow.”
Victor gave her a drawing: a small tree with roots that looked like arms.
Tami cried and gave her a toy rabbit with one eye missing.
Liam handed her a marble and whispered, “For the ghosts.”
Dahlia left the orphanage that day, her eyes wide, her small hand held in Theo’s steady grip.
And she woke from her dream
Dahlia wandered through a field of glass petals—transparent and sharp, yet somehow soft beneath her feet. Her small hands brushed against flowers that whispered names she didn’t know. The sky was amber. Time felt liquid.
In the center of the field, she saw a child.
Not her.
And yet… her.
The girl was sitting on a cold metal table beneath fluorescent lights. Her hair was soft and pale, almost colorless from the sterile lighting. Her eyes were large and luminous—violet at the center, then turning green at the edges like leaves soaking in rain.
Her skin glowed faintly, but only just.
That glow would fade in three days.
No one noticed it.
“Another drop-off,” a nurse muttered. “No paperwork. No emergency contact. She’s looks barely 6 months ?”
“She didn’t cry,” said a night guard. “She just stared. Quietest baby I’ve ever seen.”
“She’s not blinking,” the nurse added nervously.
“She’s probably in shock.”
Three Orphanages Later
The dream shifted. The child grew.
Two, maybe three years old now—her hair had turned honey-brown and soft, always a little tangled. Her eyes, still violet-green, watched everything. Curious. Quiet.
Other children played loudly. Dahlia sat beneath a tree, whispering to a line of ants.
“She’s strange,” a boy whispered to another.
“She makes flowers grow from the carpet,” a girl added, voice low and fearful. “She’s weird.”
A kind girl named Lina took her hand once.
“Wanna play kitchen?”
Dahlia nodded and made pretend flowers bloom in the plastic cups.
The older kids called her “Moonchild.”
She didn't mind.
She never got in trouble. She never raised her voice.
She was always watching.
Once, during a power cut, a rose bloomed in the dark.
They blamed a teacher.
Dahlia stayed quiet.
The Second Transfer
“She doesn’t speak much,” said one file.
“She seems to avoid adults,” said another. “But no behavioral issues. Good with younger children.”
“She fixed my hamster,” a tiny boy named Kobi said. “He was dying. I cried. She picked him up and now he’s okay again.”
That story never made it to the report.
A Quiet Drift
The orphanages blurred together—faces came and went. Some children adopted, some ran away, some returned. Dahlia grew like the trees she watched, quietly, inwardly.
There were long, quiet afternoons where she’d sit in the yard with a forgotten book and a dandelion.
There were cold nights where she’d hum herself to sleep under a moth-chewed blanket.
Sometimes she cried and didn’t know why.
She was 4 now. Her powers were stronger. She could sense when someone was about to cry. She could feel pain like it was weather in the air.
So she helped.
Quietly. Secretly.
A scraped knee. A bird with a broken wing. A teacher with a sprained wrist.
Small touches.
The pain faded.
No one suspected her.
The Final Transfer – To the Outskirts of the City
The building was older. Warmer. A little more forgotten.
There were fewer children. More windows. Less noise.
And for once, a sense of peace.
The woman who ran it was named Miss Karina—middle-aged, always wearing mismatched socks and a headscarf with birds on it.
She bent down the day Dahlia arrived and said, “You don’t have to talk. Just grow.”
That night, Dahlia made three wildflowers grow out of the concrete beneath her bed.
The other children here were quieter too.
There was Liam, age 7, who collected marbles and believed ghosts lived in the ceiling.
There was Tami, age 5, who spoke with a stutter and held Dahlia’s hand everywhere.
And Victor, age 10, who had seen too much and spoke too little.
Victor once found Dahlia kneeling in the garden, humming to herself as sunflowers twisted toward her like cats.
“You’re not like the rest of us,” he said, not mean, just truthful.
“I’m still here,” she replied softly.
Victor nodded. “Good.”
Age Four – The Adoption
One day, a man with careful hands and dark eyes visited.
He didn’t smile right away.
He knelt down in the garden where Dahlia sat feeding worms to a robin.
“My name is Antonio,” he said. “I’m not here to take you away. I’m here to offer a home.”
Dahlia blinked up at him.
Then looked at the robin.
Then at her dirt-stained fingers.
“Do you have plants?” she asked.
He smiled. “I have a whole greenhouse.”
That was enough.
Miss Karina kissed her forehead the day she left.
“You’re not just a flower, little one,” she whispered. “You’re the rain too. The kind that makes things grow.”
Victor gave her a drawing: a small tree with roots that looked like arms.
Tami cried and gave her a toy rabbit with one eye missing.
Liam handed her a marble and whispered, “For the ghosts.”
Dahlia left the orphanage that day, her eyes wide, her small hand held in Theo’s steady grip.
And she woke from her dream
End of Dahlia and the Garden of Light Chapter 58. Continue reading Chapter 59 or return to Dahlia and the Garden of Light book page.