Chapter 9 - Garden of thought

Tilly stepped out of August House, closing the door quietly behind her. She’d just gotten off the phone with her mother. The call had ended with a brief, definitive click, but Anne’s words clung in the air, unyielding as the stone walls.

She moved down the stone steps and onto the garden path, her fingers grazing the rough wood of the railing before she tucked her arms around herself. The dampness of the late afternoon settled on her sweater, cool and lingering. Her mother’s voice repeated in her mind, each phrase measured, the words coming back in fragments. You’re young. You have to learn not to get caught up in these… ideas. There had been a slight pause before Anne continued, her tone sharpening. It’s only a house, Tilly.

As she walked further, Tilly let the garden enclose her, winding past hedges that reached out with overgrown branches. She’d tried to explain, saying something about the house, its age, its place in the family. The words had felt scattered, barely formed. But Anne hadn’t waited. You’re being sentimental, she’d said, her tone slipping from persuasion to something firmer, weighing each word. I know you think this means something, but clinging to the past… it doesn’t do any good.

Tilly reached the fountain, the stone base nearly hidden beneath a blanket of vines. She lowered herself onto the edge, her fingers brushing against the damp moss clinging to its sides. The fairy statue rose above her, its face softened by time, arms stretched skyward, wings poised. She traced the statue’s weathered arm, the stone rough under her fingers, and let her hand settle there.

This is a chance for you to be free. Anne’s final words from the call came back clearly, steady and direct, landing with a feeling almost like pressure against her chest. She sat still, watching as the statue’s shadow stretched long across the garden, a dark outline etched into the worn stones beneath.

“Tilly?”

She looked up to see Opal emerging from the thicket of overgrown branches, her hair catching loose in the breeze. She moved over quietly and sank onto the fountain’s edge beside her, glancing up at the statue.

They sat without speaking for a moment, the soft rustle of leaves filling the space between them as the evening settled around them.

“Mom wants me to sell the house,” Tilly said finally, her voice steady. “She says it’s a chance to be free.”

Opal’s gaze stayed on the statue. “And what do you want?”

Tilly brushed her thumb over the moss on the statue’s arm. “I don’t know. It’s… a lot.” She looked around, at the stone pathways half-hidden by overgrowth, the edges of things she could only half see in the fading light. “But then, there’s this.”

Opal nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Sometimes, it’s about keeping what’s already yours,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but there was a steadiness in it that softened the words.

Tilly continued tracing the roughness of the moss, her fingers moving slowly along the stone as the garden shifted into deeper shadows. Her gaze drifted from the fairy statue’s softened face to the quiet stretch of trees, the shapes blending with dusk as evening settled in layers around them. The coolness pressed against her skin, grounding her, and for a moment, the memory of her mother’s voice grew faint, softened by the quiet.

Opal leaned over without a word, wrapping her arms around her, the touch both gentle and steady. Tilly let herself lean into the warmth, feeling the closeness ease some of the tension that had coiled in her shoulders. She closed her eyes, her breath slowing as she took in the subtle scent of earth and leaves, the quiet rise and fall of Opal’s breathing beside her. In the stillness, the garden felt almost suspended, holding them within its shadows and half-light.

Opal’s hand moved to rest lightly on Tilly’s back, a reassuring presence. They stayed there, neither moving nor speaking, allowing the silence to deepen. Tilly’s gaze drifted to the dark shapes of the bushes lining the path, their branches intertwined and unmoving. She listened to the faint rustle of leaves overhead, the soft sigh of the breeze as it stirred the vines around the fountain. The weight of the conversation, the words that had pressed on her so heavily, began to dissolve into something quieter, distant, as if the garden itself had taken it in.

After a while, Tilly lifted her head, her cheek brushing against Opal’s shoulder. The sky had darkened to a soft indigo, and the faintest stars were just beginning to show through the branches above. She caught a glimpse of Opal’s face, softened in the dim light, her expression calm, with an openness that seemed to offer Tilly permission to stay here, to let herself be held in this quiet moment without explanation.

Opal glanced down at her, and her hand drifted from Tilly’s back to her hand, their fingers lacing together in an unspoken assurance. They sat that way for a while longer, letting the evening settle around them, until the air grew cooler and the light nearly faded from the sky. Eventually, Opal gave her hand a gentle squeeze and stood, her fingers slipping from Tilly’s hand only as she rose.

She held out a hand, and Tilly took it, letting Opal guide her up from the fountain’s edge. Together, they began the slow walk back to the house, the outline of August House just visible between the darkened trees, its windows catching the last traces of light. The night folded in softly, wrapping around the edges of the path as they moved through the shadows, side by side.

Tilly slipped into the lecture hall, settling into a seat near the back. She’d missed the last couple of sessions, the days blending together in the long hours spent at August House. Glancing at the page of notes in front of her, she felt a familiar pang of guilt at the thought of the unread chapters she should’ve covered by now.

“…emotional energy,” Doctor Bergen was saying as she tuned in, his voice calm yet deliberate, filling the room. “It’s something we bring into each interaction. It’s what creates meaning in even the smallest exchanges, what’s at work behind patterned social encounters.”

Tilly nodded to herself, her pencil poised over her notebook, trying to catch up. Doctor Bergen’s words felt dense, something she couldn’t fully grasp without the background reading, but she knew she couldn’t afford to fall any further behind. She focused on him, leaning forward slightly, and tried a trick she’d learned—repeating key phrases, quietly, below even a whisper, barely moving her lips. “Emotional energy… patterned social encounters…”

Doctor Bergen continued, his words measured. “This energy isn’t random—it flows according to patterns, predictable ones in certain contexts. Consider flirting.” He paused, letting the word sink in, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Flirting is a patterned encounter. The energy is charged, and it’s shared between two people, sometimes almost like an unspoken agreement.”

Tilly’s pencil stilled. Flirting. She could feel herself tense slightly, listening a little more intently, hoping to absorb something useful.

Doctor Bergen went on, “Flirting builds from micro-signals. The slightest touch, the angle of someone’s body, a lowered gaze. These are all tiny gestures that add up to create what we interpret as interest or attraction. Each of us brings a different level of emotional energy to these encounters, and how we handle it, how we receive it, often reflects back what’s in ourselves.”

Tilly let her pencil trace light, aimless lines in the margins of her notebook. Her thoughts drifted to her own attempts at flirting, the awkward pauses, her uncertain responses. She’d tried to flirt in the past—once or twice, maybe more, but each time it felt stilted, as if she were struggling to match a rhythm she couldn’t quite hear.

Then there was Opal. She thought of Opal’s small, almost invisible gestures, the way she leaned in just a bit closer when they spoke, or her hand reaching to adjust something near Tilly’s shoulder, the light touch lingering for just a moment. For Opal, flirting seemed effortless, woven naturally into her words and gestures. Tilly glanced down, her mouth shaping the phrase, “micro-signals, emotional energy.” She wondered, with a faint feeling of uncertainty, whether these signals she’d picked up were anything more than fleeting moments, small pieces of something that felt like interest but seemed to fade as easily as they’d appeared.

Doctor Bergen spoke again, his tone taking on a thoughtful quality. “Often, the question isn’t whether someone’s flirting, but how you’re receiving it. Are you interpreting it as an invitation, or just as friendliness? That’s where personal experience and your own emotional energy come in. It’s a dance that requires tuning in not just to others, but to yourself.”

The words held her attention, bringing her back to the quiet moments with Opal. She remembered Opal’s gaze, steady but warm, and the way her hand had lingered just a second longer when they’d hugged by the fountain. She couldn’t be certain if it meant anything more than friendship—or if she wanted it to. Part of her was sure Opal knew she was flirting, and maybe even that Tilly knew. But where the line blurred, Tilly found herself uncertain, wondering if she was simply misreading gestures that felt weighted with significance only to her.

The professor’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Flirting, like any other patterned interaction, relies on emotional alignment. It isn’t always intentional—sometimes, it’s simply the flow of energy between two people. But when that energy aligns, when there’s a give-and-take, a push-and-pull, that’s when it becomes noticeable. That’s when it matters.”

Tilly felt the faintest pull at her lips, a nearly imperceptible smile forming. Doctor Bergen made it sound almost scientific, something with structure and clear signals. And yet, sitting there, her mind drifting back to Opal, she felt how slippery it all was, how easy it was to lose the thread, to doubt whether it was even there in the first place.

She scribbled down a few more words—patterned encounters, alignment, emotional energy—her lips barely moving as she repeated them under her breath. The phrases felt distant, abstract, but somehow just real enough to resonate.

Doctor Bergen’s voice faded into a steady rhythm, his words creating a low, layered hum. Interpreting emotions had always felt just out of reach for Tilly, an exercise in shadows and faint gestures she wasn’t certain how to read. Sometimes, she wasn’t even sure if she was having emotions at all. Opal, at least, had her armor—sarcasm and quick remarks that left things half-concealed. Tilly had no such cover; her attempts felt obvious, and yet, when it came to others, everything felt hidden, fleeting.

Her thoughts drifted to the night in the garden, the mist hanging thick in the air, vines entwined along the fountain’s stone. The garden had a presence, a quiet that seemed to linger just for her, as though its shadowed paths and tangled plants held some kind of invitation. She almost smiled, catching herself before wondering whether the garden had been, in some way, flirting. The notion softened her. Perhaps even the garden knew something about invitation that she didn’t.

The faintest smile surfaced, and she made a mental note to look up videos on flirting. Maybe it was a skill, a rhythm she could practice. If there were patterns, she could study them, learn the right turns of phrase, the angles of approach. She pictured herself responding to the garden’s quiet allure, weaving through its paths with purpose, matching its gestures. Flirting back with it.

The lecture wrapped up around her, Doctor Bergen’s words breaking into her thoughts. She tucked her notes into her bag but lingered, watching as students filed out, the hum of voices swelling and then softening as the room emptied.

Tilly gathered her things slowly, watching as the last few students left, their voices fading into the hallway. She lingered, running her fingers over the edge of her notebook, and found her thoughts drifting back to the journal, her ancestor’s exact, measured words coming to mind in fragments.

The earth cold beneath my feet… She stands with me now… I am hers. The phrases surfaced, clear and spare, bringing the image of him in the garden, moving through familiar rituals with a loyalty bound to something unseen. She could picture him there, returning each night, candles burning down too fast as he left offerings in the quiet spaces beneath the trees.

She slipped her notebook into her bag, but his phrases lingered, scattered in her mind like a trail left behind. Shadows lengthen… she watches me. The words seemed to press out, catching against the quiet of his handwriting, his devotion captured in every line—a kind of commitment that felt heavy and unbreakable.

As she slipped her bag over her shoulder and stepped into the hallway, her thoughts trailed back to those lines. She wondered if he’d ever tried to free himself from this unnamed woman, or if the idea had even crossed his mind. Had he let the ritual take hold so deeply that it became its own pattern, one he could never loosen?

Doctor Bergen’s words on emotional energy and alignment drifted back to her. Love, it seemed, could turn into its own ritual, the smallest gestures—the footsteps, words, nightly routines—quietly becoming anchors. She allowed herself a faint smile, imagining her ancestor considering something as simple as a softer word or a new gesture, rather than returning to the same unbroken patterns, night after night.

The thought carried her down the hall, lingering with her like a faint echo of his voice, I am hers.

The late morning light slanted through the kitchen windows, catching the dust that hung in the air and brightening the worn surfaces of the cabinets and countertops. Tilly scrubbed at a stubborn patch on the counter, her coffee mug cooling nearby. Nick was crouched beside her, adjusting the hinges on a cabinet door that had been creaking with every swing. Across the room, Aphid was carefully wiping down the shelves, her focus intent, while Opal was bent over the sink, muttering about the years of grime clinging to its edges.

“School’s relentless this semester,” Nick said, tightening a screw and giving the door a cautious swing. “Feels like every professor’s out to prove their class is the hardest.”

Opal groaned, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Don’t remind me. They all act like we don’t have any other classes. I can’t remember the last time I got more than five hours of sleep.”

Tilly smiled, taking a quick sip of her coffee. “I finally made it to my Sociology of Emotions class this morning,” she said. “Doctor Bergen was talking about flirting—the whole ritual of it, the little signals we give off without even meaning to.”

“Oh yeah?” Nick looked up from his work. “What kind of signals?”

“Well,” Tilly replied, twisting her cloth thoughtfully, “he mentioned things like leaning in a little closer, or holding someone’s gaze for just a bit longer than usual. Even a small touch can be a signal.” She leaned toward Nick with exaggerated seriousness, reaching over to tap his shoulder lightly. “Apparently, it’s all in the details.”

Nick laughed, shaking his head. “If that’s subtle, I must be hopeless at it.”

Aphid looked up from the shelves, a slight crease between her brows. “People always think I’m flirting when I’m just being nice,” she said. “It’s a little frustrating, honestly. I just want to have a normal conversation without everyone reading into it.”

Opal straightened from the sink, looking over at Aphid with a curious expression. “Funny,” she said, crossing her arms, “I’ve spent half our friendship convinced you wanted to kiss me.”

Aphid froze, her cloth held mid-air as her eyes went wide. She glanced from Opal to Tilly, her surprise clear. “Wait—really?”

Opal held her gaze, her expression unreadable, the barest hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. Even Tilly felt her own breath catch, wondering if Opal was actually serious. The quiet in the kitchen deepened for a moment.

After a beat, Opal finally cracked, letting out a laugh. “Relax, Aphid. I’m kidding.”

Aphid’s face softened in visible relief, though she looked both flustered and a bit bewildered. Opal grinned, glancing over at Tilly. “But honestly? People think the same thing about me half the time, and they’re probably right. I mean, I probably am flirting. Hard to tell sometimes.”

Tilly laughed, feeling the tension in the room dissolve as Nick chuckled from where he was now reattaching the cabinet door. Aphid shook her head, giving Opal a look of amused exasperation, clearly still processing what had just happened. The moment passed, and the sounds of scrubbing, tinkering, and easy laughter filled the kitchen once more.

Opal shook her head, sighing as she wrung out her cloth. “Honestly, I’m in my second year as an art major, and I feel like I barely get to do any actual art. I’m still slogging through general requirements that I couldn’t care less about. The only class I really like is life drawing.”

Nick, crouched down as he tested the cabinet door one more time, looked up with a grin. “So what’s it like drawing, you know, nude people?”

Opal rolled her eyes, though a small smile crept onto her face. “Not nearly as interesting as people think. Trust me, it’s the least sexy thing in the world. You’re too busy trying to get the proportions right, and the angles and shading. Meanwhile, the instructor’s pacing around, hanging over your shoulder, pointing out every single thing you’re doing wrong.”

She leaned against the counter, folding her arms thoughtfully. “Plus, it’s usually not anyone who looks like they’ve just stepped off a magazine cover. And honestly? I’m glad. Drawing rolls of fat, skin creases, and all the stuff that makes a body unique is a much bigger challenge, and I actually want to get better at it. The details are where all the interesting stuff is.”

Tilly nodded, glancing over from where she was scrubbing a particularly grimy section of the countertop. “So you prefer drawing regular people?”

“Absolutely,” Opal said, her eyes lighting up a bit. “I mean, I can do buildings, streets, even faces pretty well. But full bodies, the way weight falls, the way skin curves… that’s a real challenge. There’s something satisfying about capturing what’s real, you know? Not just a version of beauty everyone’s used to.”

Aphid, who had been quietly wiping down the shelves, looked over with interest. “That sounds… like a totally different way to see people,” she said thoughtfully. “Like getting to know them without words.”

Opal nodded. “It is, kind of. You start to notice details most people don’t think about. It’s actually one of the reasons I wanted to study art in the first place, just to see things differently.”

Nick tilted his head, giving Opal a teasing smile. “So, no romance in it at all, huh?”

Opal laughed, shaking her head. “Not a bit. It’s all about lines and shading and getting it right, and meanwhile, the instructor is breathing down your neck. I’m just grateful every time I don’t smudge the page.”

Opal laughed, shaking her head. “I’m just grateful every time I don’t smudge the page.”

Tilly hesitated, wringing out her cloth a little more slowly. She looked down, her fingers tracing a faint scratch on the countertop. “Well… if you ever wanted to draw someone you know,” she said, her voice quiet, “I might… be open to that.”

Opal looked over, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You’d want to pose?”

Tilly’s gaze stayed on the counter, her fingers pausing. “Maybe. I mean… I’ve never done anything like that. But… I’d trust you to make me look like I belong on the page.”

Opal nodded, considering this. “I’d like that,” she said. “If you’d ever want to.”

Tilly glanced up, her mouth curving into a slight smile. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe.”

They returned to their tasks, the sounds of scrubbing and quiet shifting in the kitchen. Nick and Aphid, across the room, exchanged a quick look and a small, shared smile before returning to their work.