Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 89: Chapter 89

The sun spilled gold over the Anderson estate, warming the stone walkways and painting the bloom room forest in soft blushes of light. The wind carried hints of lavender and marula—scents planted by Dahlia herself in the corners of the living garden. She sat cross-legged beneath the flowering wisteria tree, brushing petals off her lap, when she heard the distant rumble of tires over gravel.
A squeal of joy rang through the air before the car even stopped.
"Amy!" Dahlia scrambled to her feet just as the doors flew open.
Amy practically launched herself out of the passenger seat, arms wide, grinning so hard it hurt. “Dahlia!” she shouted, racing up the path.
They collided in an embrace, spinning once before laughing into each other’s shoulders.
“You’re finally back!” Dahlia said, tears already welling in her eyes.
Amy stepped back, cupping Dahlia’s cheeks. “You grew your hair longer again. And you look so peaceful. The forest suits you.”
“It’s been quiet. Blooming. You?”
Amy gave her a mock gasp. “Quiet? We wrestled crocodiles in Madagascar, danced in rainstorms in Sri Lanka, and I may or may not have accidentally insulted a Portuguese goat farmer’s entire family line.”
Jack walked up, suitcase in one hand, hat in the other. “Correction I insulted the goat farmer. Amy tried to apologize. Then bought three baby goats.”
“They were starving, Jack!”
“I know,” he said, smiling. “They live at the sanctuary now.”
Dahlia led them through the winding garden paths toward the glass doors of the bloom room extension. Vines curled gently from the walls as if waving hello. “Tell me everything.”
“Oh, you’re in for it now,” Jack muttered.
Inside the bloom room, Eliot was hunched over a glowing projection map, tracing red lines through the Amazon basin, the Tibetan plateau, and the coasts of Mozambique. He looked up as the trio entered.
“Amy! Jack!” he called out, rising. “Welcome back. How’s the married life?”
Amy plopped down beside him. “Romantic. Slightly dangerous. Full of unexpected elephants.”
Jack pointed to the map. “What’s that?”
Eliot tapped the interface and the projection rotated. “We’re building a global distribution system. Orchid and Dahlia’s blooms are being cultivated in key safehouses—underground greenhouses, medical centers, even floating planters for nomadic sea villages.”
Jack whistled. “That’s incredible. How do you move them?”
“Seeds through coded satchels and pre-cleared safe couriers. Dahlia’s bloom can adapt once rooted. But it takes connection. She’s tied to them all.”
Jack blinked. “You’re saying Dahlia’s emotionally bonded to…every flower out there?”
Dahlia smiled softly. “I don’t feel each one all the time. But when one blooms—somewhere it’s needed—I feel it like a tug in my chest. I call it a whisper.”
Amy leaned back, eyes dreamy. “She whispered a whole jungle into healing once.”
“And you,” Dahlia said, nudging her, “spent your honeymoon healing coral reefs in Mauritius with your bracelet.”
“Jack almost drowned twice,” Amy said with a shrug.
“Worth it,” he added, sipping from the herbal tea Dahlia had placed beside him.
Later that afternoon, the group gathered on the veranda. Christian strolled in from the hospital, lab coat askew, a flower tucked behind one ear.
“Your vines snuck into the stairwell again,” he said dryly to Dahlia. “A woman nearly fainted when they offered her a petal.”
“Did she take it?”
“…Yes. And she called her sister crying. Something about her arthritis being gone.”
Eliot grinned. “Classic Dahlia.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Amy and Dahlia sat curled under one of the flowering arches, watching the light fade.
“So,” Amy said, lacing her fingers with Dahlia’s. “What’s next?”
Dahlia exhaled, watching a hummingbird hover near a violet bloom. “Derek is out with Leo. Theo is in Peru now. The bloom room forest keeps growing. But…”
“But?”
“I miss you,” Dahlia said.
Amy leaned her head on Dahlia’s shoulder. “Then let’s stay a while. Maybe long enough to plant something.”