Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 70: Chapter 70

One Year Later – Petals Across the World
Villages. Cities. Shelters. Gardens that once cracked in the heat now bloomed with quiet color. The legend of the flower woman had spread — whispered in tea shops, etched in the hearts of children healed by her petals, carried in letters and in the silent smiles of those who could walk again. From refugee camps in Jordan to hilltop temples in Peru, someone always remembered a girl who knelt in the dirt and left a garden behind.
Dahlia hadn’t stayed anywhere long. Markus stayed by her side. Sometimes Dahlia sang to herself in languages she didn’t know. Sometimes Markus would find her asleep beside vines curling up lampposts.
Then the message came.
A quiet call from home:
William Anderson’s health was failing.
The roots were giving way.
Back to the Garden
Markus was the first to move, booking the flights, coordinating with Antonio and Christian. Dahlia didn’t say much. She held the message in her lap the whole way home, as if reading it again might stop time.
When they stepped onto Anderson soil — damp with spring and memory — the garden knew.
The vines arched toward her. The soft green path lit with pale golden pollen. And the bloom room… opened.
It was brighter now, more golden than green. A low hum ran through it, as if the walls remembered every flower she ever coaxed into bloom. The scent of lavender and hyacinth filled the air, mingling with something older — the soft smell of home.
Antonio stood at the edge of the room.
“You made it,” he said quietly.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t,” Dahlia whispered.
He pulled her into a long hug. No words. Just the quiet comfort of roots.
Theo, Christian, and Eliot came one by one — no ceremony, just presence. Eliot joked about how “Dahlia’s magic made the surveillance systems grow vines again,” and Christian promised he’d ordered her favorite tea. Theo tried not to cry. Failed. Gave her a hug anyway.
Two Days Later – Reunions
Amy and Jack arrived late at night, coats wet from the London rains, but with eyes bright like they had never left.
Amy crashed into Dahlia first, hugging her fiercely.
“You smell like a whole rainforest,” she said. “Don’t you ever text?”
Dahlia laughed through her tears. “You know I’m not allowed near technology.”
Jack gave her a quiet hug and whispered, “We came home just in time.”
The next morning, Mira arrived with Derek, Orchid, and Lina.
Orchid was taller now. She wore a necklace she had made from a seedpod and three white petals. She stepped cautiously into the house, but she didn’t hide.
Orchid’s eyes swept over the room — the glowing vines, the people waiting — then landed on William’s bedroom door, slightly ajar.
“Is he… sleeping?” she asked softly.
Mira nodded. “Resting. But he’s been asking for all of you.”
Derek gave Dahlia a look — steady, older now — and gently guided Orchid forward.
William’s Room – One by One
The bed was surrounded by potted flowers — ones Dahlia had grown, ones William had tended in secret. His breath was shallow, but his eyes opened when he heard the footsteps.
Antonio sat by his side.
Dahlia took his hand first.
“You still have bark on those old hands,” William rasped.
“You still remember how to tease,” she said gently.
One by one, the family sat with him.
To Dahlia, he said:
“You carried the garden farther than I ever could've dreamed of. You brought it to hearts. You made roots in the sky.”
To Markus:
“You’ve seen all of her. And you stayed. That’s all I ever wanted.”
To Amy and Jack:
“Never stop building roads. People need to walk somewhere after the world ends.”
To Theo, Christian, Eliot:
“You were the hands that held the trunk steady. I watched. I knew.”
To Antonio:
“You’re the roots. My son. My legacy. Take care of them.”
Then he saw Orchid, standing a little behind Lina.
His eyes softened. “And who’s this?”
“I’m Orchid,” she said clearly. “I’m not from here, but I think I belong.”
William’s breath hitched with a smile. “Of course you do, child. She said, "The moon’s been whispering about you.”
Orchid walked up, took his hand gently.
“The moon says,” she whispered, “it’s almost time.”
One Month Later – The Funeral
The sky was overcast, the wind slow and respectful. The garden had dimmed its glow. A hush held the trees.
They buried him beneath the oldest oak, near the edge of the bloom room. A small stone, carved with roots and petals, marked the place.
The Andersons stood in a close circle.
Amy’s family came. Her parents, polite and distant. Her cousins whispered to each other about the flowers, about “that girl” and “the weird way the trees lean toward the house.” But no one stopped the ceremony.
Dahlia spoke briefly, holding a single white firelily.
“He was the first to see me,” she said. “Not the light. Me.”
Markus placed a stone over the grave.
Mira stood at the edge, one hand on Orchid’s shoulder.
Derek scattered petals, and the birds sang louder than usual.
That Night – Back in the Bloom Room
They all sat there, curled up in old chairs and on floor cushions. Tea passed from hand to hand. Amy lit a candle for him. Eliot played something soft on the old gramophone.
Orchid whispered to Dahlia:
“Do you think he’s on the moon now?”
Dahlia smiled faintly. “Maybe he’s planting flowers up there.”
“And watching us?”
“Always.”
Markus pulled a blanket over Dahlia’s shoulders as she leaned into him.