Chapter 3
299 Words
"Reality is but a fragile thread,
Woven between dreams and waking dread.
A touch, a sound, a fleeting sight,
Yet who can say what’s truly right?"
— Unknown
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The afternoon air carries the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers as Isla steps into the garden. Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting delicate patterns on the stone pathway. The garden has always been her sanctuary, the one place where time feels slower, softer.
She kneels by the lilies, brushing her fingers against their petals before carefully trimming a few. Their mother’s favorite. She still remembers watching Ma tend to them, her hands patient, her voice humming a melody Isla can no longer recall.
A breeze sweeps through, rustling the branches overhead. For a brief moment, Isla swears she hears a voice—not Isha’s, not Pa’s.
She stills.
Nothing.
Just the wind.
With a quiet sigh, she gathers the lilies into a bundle and stands. From inside, she can hear the distant sounds of Isha moving about, the faint clang of dishes being set on the table. Everything is almost ready.
As she turns to head back inside, a movement catches her eye.
She blinks.
No one is there.
A shiver trails down her spine.
Maybe she’s just tired.
She shakes off the uneasy feeling and walks back inside.
Inside the House
Isha is standing by the window, looking out at the road. "He should be here soon," she says, excitement lacing her voice.
Isla places the lilies into a vase, arranging them carefully. "Yeah."
Isha turns to her, tilting her head. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Isla forces a small smile. "Just... thinking."
Isha doesn’t press. Instead, she gestures toward the table. "Everything’s set. The house looks perfect."
Isla nods. She should feel relief. Their father is coming home.
- Writer
