The Withering Orchard

Once, I tended a secret orchard, where blossoms opened only for two, their fragrance soft as dawnlight, their roots deep as promises whispered in shadow. But storms are not always thunder and rain, sometimes they wear the faces of kin, sometimes the hand that waters the tree is the hand that severs its branches. I told the orchard it was barren, that no fruit would ripen, that the soil itself was weary, yet I knew the truth was different, my tongue was not my own, my words borrowed from voices older than mine. The girl who walked among the blossoms believed the orchard failed her, but it was I who was plucked from the roots, forced to leave the garden untended, watching petals fall like broken promises. Still, when the night wind moves, I hear the orchard sigh, its branches ache for the gardener, its blossoms long for sunlight that was never theirs to keep. And I wonder, in silence, if love cut by another’s hand can ever bloom again, or if the orchard will stand forever alive, but never whole.