Isla
The image of the withered flower kept haunting me. Its crumbled petals, once so vibrant, seemed to echo every fear I had about myself. That no matter how hard I tried, the darkness within me would always win. That maybe I should never touch magic again. Never try. Never hope.
But when morning came, the sky painted in hues of apricot and lavender, I found myself at the garden gate once more.
Mrs. Hawthorne stood there already, as if she had been waiting.
"You feel it too, don’t you?" she asked softly.
I nodded. "I can’t leave it like that."
"Then don’t."
We stepped into the garden together. The wind was gentler today, and the flowers seemed to lean slightly toward the center, toward the empty patch where the Emberbloom had died.
"You must try again," she said. "But not because
