Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 66: Chapter 66
You are reading Dahlia and the Garden of Light, Chapter 66: Chapter 66. Read more chapters of Dahlia and the Garden of Light.
Abandoned Park – Outskirts of the Nameless Village, India
The old playground looked like something time had forgotten. Rusted monkey bars leaned sideways. The slide was cracked in the middle, split like a fallen tree. But the banyan tree stood tall at the park’s center—its roots spilling like ribbons into the dusty ground.
A broken swing creaked gently in the wind.
A little girl sat on it.
She couldn’t have been more than four. Her black hair curled softly around her pale face, and her eyes—strange, flickering gold like fireflies—tracked the sky as if listening for something.
The flowers beneath the banyan tree had begun to bloom despite the season. Purple asters. Moon daisies. Soft jungle jasmine.
And someone was watching her.
From the overgrown fence, Dahlia stepped into view, slow and gentle like approaching a startled deer. The vines wrapped loosely around her ankles, staying low, quiet. Her heart thundered in her chest.
This is her.
The girl didn’t flinch. She turned her head and looked directly at Dahlia.
“You’re glowing,” the child said simply.
Dahlia blinked. “I—am?”
“Only a little. Like the moon.”
Dahlia stepped a little closer, crouching down to be eye-level. “Do you like the moon?”
The girl tilted her head. “Sometimes. But it talks too much.”
Dahlia smiled. “What does it say?”
“That I’m not alone.”
The swing creaked again.
Silence stretched like silk between them, and then:
“What’s your name?” Dahlia asked softly.
“I don’t have one,” the girl said. “But the wind calls me Orchid sometimes.”
Dahlia’s breath caught. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Orchid blinked slowly. “Who are you?”
Dahlia hesitated. “My name is Dahlia.”
Orchid studied her, eyes flickering. “Like the flower?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
“You smell like petals and water.”
“You smell like moonlight and green things,” Dahlia whispered.
From behind the banyan trunk, a breeze stirred the branches—and the flowers that had bloomed there trembled as though they recognized them both. Dahlia felt the whisper in her blood. Not memory. Not prophecy.
Recognition.
Derek and Markus watched from the far side of the park wall, hidden behind brush. Markus’s voice was low. “She hasn’t run. That’s a good sign.”
Derek tilted his head, watching the girl. “She looks… familiar. But not in the way Mira looked like Dahlia. It’s something else. Like… shared music.”
Markus said nothing. But he felt it too. The air around them was no longer just humid—it pulsed.
Back on the swing, Orchid hopped off and took one hesitant step toward Dahlia.
“Are you here to take me away?” she asked.
“No,” Dahlia said gently. “Not unless you want to come.”
“Most people don’t stay,” Orchid said. “They get scared when the flowers follow me.”
Dahlia sat cross-legged in the dust, slowly extending her hand. A single vine crept up from beneath the cracked pavement and twirled into a tiny daisy between her fingers.
“I know that feeling,” Dahlia said. “When I was little, the flowers listened to me too. And people were scared. I thought I was broken.”
“Are you?” Orchid asked, eyes wide.
“No. And neither are you.”
Orchid stared at the daisy. She whispered, “Sometimes the grass grows where I step.”
Dahlia’s hand trembled. “That’s not something to fear. That’s something to learn.”
The little girl came closer—still guarded, still watching. But her head tilted, curious.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“No,” Dahlia said honestly. “Not yet. But I feel you. Like a part of my heart I didn’t know was missing.”
Orchid studied her face. “Are you my mom?”
Dahlia blinked, startled. Then softly laughed. “No, little bloom. I’m not your mom.”
“But… we match,” Orchid said, kneeling suddenly beside her. “Your voice feels like mine when I hum. Your eyes have stars. And you make the plants listen.”
Dahlia nodded slowly. “Maybe we’re sisters. Or maybe something even deeper. Maybe the garden chose both of us.”
Orchid looked down, curling her fingers around the daisy Dahlia had made. “I don’t remember anyone. Just the woman in the red hoop. She says I have to stay hidden.”
“Where is she now?”
Orchid pointed toward a distant hillside. “She said she had to go talk to a shadow.”
Dahlia’s heart froze. A shadow. Markus’s old codename.
She turned subtly and made a signal toward the trees. Markus saw it and moved instantly, circling.
Orchid touched Dahlia’s face gently, her fingers cool and light.
The old playground looked like something time had forgotten. Rusted monkey bars leaned sideways. The slide was cracked in the middle, split like a fallen tree. But the banyan tree stood tall at the park’s center—its roots spilling like ribbons into the dusty ground.
A broken swing creaked gently in the wind.
A little girl sat on it.
She couldn’t have been more than four. Her black hair curled softly around her pale face, and her eyes—strange, flickering gold like fireflies—tracked the sky as if listening for something.
The flowers beneath the banyan tree had begun to bloom despite the season. Purple asters. Moon daisies. Soft jungle jasmine.
And someone was watching her.
From the overgrown fence, Dahlia stepped into view, slow and gentle like approaching a startled deer. The vines wrapped loosely around her ankles, staying low, quiet. Her heart thundered in her chest.
This is her.
The girl didn’t flinch. She turned her head and looked directly at Dahlia.
“You’re glowing,” the child said simply.
Dahlia blinked. “I—am?”
“Only a little. Like the moon.”
Dahlia stepped a little closer, crouching down to be eye-level. “Do you like the moon?”
The girl tilted her head. “Sometimes. But it talks too much.”
Dahlia smiled. “What does it say?”
“That I’m not alone.”
The swing creaked again.
Silence stretched like silk between them, and then:
“What’s your name?” Dahlia asked softly.
“I don’t have one,” the girl said. “But the wind calls me Orchid sometimes.”
Dahlia’s breath caught. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Orchid blinked slowly. “Who are you?”
Dahlia hesitated. “My name is Dahlia.”
Orchid studied her, eyes flickering. “Like the flower?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
“You smell like petals and water.”
“You smell like moonlight and green things,” Dahlia whispered.
From behind the banyan trunk, a breeze stirred the branches—and the flowers that had bloomed there trembled as though they recognized them both. Dahlia felt the whisper in her blood. Not memory. Not prophecy.
Recognition.
Derek and Markus watched from the far side of the park wall, hidden behind brush. Markus’s voice was low. “She hasn’t run. That’s a good sign.”
Derek tilted his head, watching the girl. “She looks… familiar. But not in the way Mira looked like Dahlia. It’s something else. Like… shared music.”
Markus said nothing. But he felt it too. The air around them was no longer just humid—it pulsed.
Back on the swing, Orchid hopped off and took one hesitant step toward Dahlia.
“Are you here to take me away?” she asked.
“No,” Dahlia said gently. “Not unless you want to come.”
“Most people don’t stay,” Orchid said. “They get scared when the flowers follow me.”
Dahlia sat cross-legged in the dust, slowly extending her hand. A single vine crept up from beneath the cracked pavement and twirled into a tiny daisy between her fingers.
“I know that feeling,” Dahlia said. “When I was little, the flowers listened to me too. And people were scared. I thought I was broken.”
“Are you?” Orchid asked, eyes wide.
“No. And neither are you.”
Orchid stared at the daisy. She whispered, “Sometimes the grass grows where I step.”
Dahlia’s hand trembled. “That’s not something to fear. That’s something to learn.”
The little girl came closer—still guarded, still watching. But her head tilted, curious.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“No,” Dahlia said honestly. “Not yet. But I feel you. Like a part of my heart I didn’t know was missing.”
Orchid studied her face. “Are you my mom?”
Dahlia blinked, startled. Then softly laughed. “No, little bloom. I’m not your mom.”
“But… we match,” Orchid said, kneeling suddenly beside her. “Your voice feels like mine when I hum. Your eyes have stars. And you make the plants listen.”
Dahlia nodded slowly. “Maybe we’re sisters. Or maybe something even deeper. Maybe the garden chose both of us.”
Orchid looked down, curling her fingers around the daisy Dahlia had made. “I don’t remember anyone. Just the woman in the red hoop. She says I have to stay hidden.”
“Where is she now?”
Orchid pointed toward a distant hillside. “She said she had to go talk to a shadow.”
Dahlia’s heart froze. A shadow. Markus’s old codename.
She turned subtly and made a signal toward the trees. Markus saw it and moved instantly, circling.
Orchid touched Dahlia’s face gently, her fingers cool and light.
End of Dahlia and the Garden of Light Chapter 66. Continue reading Chapter 67 or return to Dahlia and the Garden of Light book page.