Death of the Lilacs

I never should have opened that letter. But from the moment my fingers brushed the aged paper, thin and fragile, it seduced me.

It all started on estate sale day. On any other Thursday, I would wake up crazy excited, strip out of my cotton PJs and swap them for jeans and my gray V-neck, the one with 'Vintage' across the chest in fading white vinyl. I would appreciate the scent of the fresh lilacs that had just bloomed outside my window, their enchanting aroma drifting in as a passenger on the early morning breeze. 

Then, I’d head out for a long, adventurous day of treasure hunting. There’s something magical about rescuing a forgotten piece of furniture or trinket, it drives me. Knowing that each piece will start a new life, absorbing new memories – it is intoxicating.

But that Thursday I woke up with an uneasy feeling that I immediately brushed off, assuming it was residual bad dream funk. Through my vintage lace curtains, I could see evidence of a cloudy day, doing nothing to brighten my spirit or improve my mood. 

And then there were the lilacs. This morning, their fragrance was thick, overpowering, and instantly turned my stomach. With an irritated mumble, I reached over and slid the window shut with a sharp thud. Pulling the blanket over my head, I heavily considered going back to sleep.

However, 15 minutes later, I was dressed and headed out the door – unheard of for me. It was as if I had somewhere urgent to be, but when I checked my calendar app, there was nothing booked. 

As I locked the door behind me, the heavy scent of the lilacs filled the air – overbearing and inescapable. They had sprung up from out of nowhere just a few weeks ago, their soft purple and white blossoms spilling over the wooden railing of my front porch. At first, I welcomed them, admired them. But now, they felt invasive, their presence needling at my already fraying mood.

I had been at the first sale of the day for about half an hour and it seemed like a bust. After wandering from room to room, sifting through boxes and stacked containers of someone else’s memories, I was just about ready to head to the next stop on my Google Maps list. As I stepped into the kitchen, I suddenly lost my balance and grabbed the long slab of butcher block countertop to steady myself. 

Instantly, my senses were overwhelmed – years of long-forgotten Sunday morning breakfasts, afternoon bread proofs, and late-night Christmas cookie bakes. The heavy scent of bacon and coffee made me dizzy and hungry at the same time. I heard a child laughing and turned to see a little girl hiding her giggles behind a cupped hand as she pointed at Tom chasing Jerry across the flickering screen of an old tube TV.

Then, a scream rang out – sharp and raw – echoing into my soul, almost as if it came from within.

As I released my grip on the countertop, I spun around to see what had happened. Instantly, everything changed. The warm scents of breakfast were gone. The little girl – gone. The TV wasn’t even plugged in, its frayed cord hanging eerily off to the side. 

It was just the humdrum sound of a normal estate sale with people milling about and haggling the cashier with lower price offers. I just stood still, trying to breathe and make sense of what had just happened. 

Before I could grasp any ounce of stability, a sudden ding from the oven sent me nearly jumping out of my own skin. I bolted past the cashier and straight for the front door. 

“Edith.”

I stopped. My feet, my heart, and my breath – everything just stopped. My body turned and drifted past the Watch Your Step sign as I felt pulled down the wooden steps into the garage. It sat still – empty of people, empty of life – yet oddly full of the scent of lilacs. Why couldn’t I escape it?

I hadn’t been in this room yet. I had peeked inside earlier, but it seemed full of things I usually ignored. Pesticides, old mulch, motor oil – nothing that belonged in an antique booth. Yet, here I was, drowning in the scent of lilacs with not a bloom in sight. 

Why had I come? 

I wanted to leave. 

All at once, sunlight pushed its way through the clear glass windows of the garage door, spilling onto a small, frail woman seated at the desk in front of me. The same desk that, just seconds before, had been buried beneath years of dust and piled high with empty boxes - an old ladder leaning against one side. 

All of that was gone now. 

And I could smell breakfast again.

“Edith! I work all day to put food on this table – you think it’s gonna cook itself?” The dark voice boomed behind me. I flinched but couldn’t tear my eyes from her.

The woman turned and looked right at me. And then, after just a second of recognition—right through me. She turned back to the desk and in a swift, almost frantic motion, shoved a piece of paper into an envelope. I heard her whispering something, but the words were too soft to make out.

“Dammit, woman, where are you?” came the voice from the top of the stairs.

My instinct was to spin around, to see him. But my eyes stayed fixed on Edith.

She was facing me now, her gaze moving down the staircase, as he came down.

“You know better than to keep me waiting,” he said, his words rolling down the back of my neck like sap oozing from a wounded sweetgum tree. I resisted the urge to wipe it away.

Edith slid her trembling hands into her apron. Her gray eyes hovered just above my head, steady in his direction. Slowly, her shoulders curled back, pushing her tiny frame to stand tall. Her chin lifted just enough to prove her fortitude. But the slow rise and fall of her chest wasn’t from resolve—it was control, each breath measured to contain her emotions.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I should have been more mindful of your time. The bacon’s on now. I’ll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”

I could feel his heat standing uncomfortably close behind me. The hair on the back of my neck lifted with each of his heavy breaths as he considered his reply. Finally, he muttered, “You’d better.” The sound of his heavy boots grew lighter as he moved toward the stairs. 

Her eyes were back on me – not through me. She stood still for a moment, as if thinking something through. Then, as if she had made her decision, she turned toward the desk and opened the top left drawer. 

She looked at me again, then down at the drawer – I followed her gaze. 

With a careful hand, she slid the bottom of the drawer back, pulled the envelope from her apron pocket, placed it in the hollow space, and closed the drawer.

Her gaze shifted to me once more, her eyes trying to tell me a story, calling my name. Her mouth opened, her expression full of apology, but no words came.

As she took a step forward, the sunlight caught the iridescent trail of a single tear that had run down her cheek. My heart hurt for her.

All at once, she was gone. The sun had vanished. The windows on the garage door had been painted over years ago. The acrid smell of gasoline, oil, and pesticides flooding my nose once again.

I gasped and wiped my face, realizing that I, too, had tears streaming down my cheeks. I took a few steps toward the desk, my eyes locked on the drawer. My pulse quickened as I reached out to pull it open.

“Miss, do you need help?” came a tiny voice from the top of the stairs. 

I jumped. And screamed. 

Then she screamed. 

With our hands over our chests, we both burst into laughter.

“I am so sorry, doll! I didn’t mean to startle you”.

“It’s totally ok. I was in my own world.”

I took a deep, slow breath—in and out. 

“Actually, yes, I would like some help. I’m interested in this desk, but I don’t see a price on it.” I said, pointing to the spot where the woman had just been sitting.

“Oh, that old thing is junk, honey. One of the drawers is stuck and, it’s missing a leg.” She turned to head back through the door.

I looked at the desk, then back at her. “All the same, I’d love to take it off your hands. Would you take twenty for it?” 

She stopped and turned around. Her expression shifted – I could see the dollar signs in her eyes and a slight hint of a smirk on her lips. Then, just as quickly, it changed again to a look of faux concern. 

“Well, that did belong to the homeowner, and I am trying to get the family top dollar. I couldn’t possibly let it go for twenty dollars. But I imagine they’d be okay with fifty – does that work for you?”

Twenty dollars is usually my price point for old furniture – twenty dollars and little to no damage, other than age. But she was asking fifty and it would need extensive repairs. 

Not that I was buying it for resale anyway – honestly, I felt like I was out of mind when I agreed.

But the next thing out of my mouth was, “Sure! Fifty is great. Can I have someone pick it up in an hour?”

“Well now, that would be lovely.” The edges of the woman’s mouth curled into a slow, knowing grin – full of satisfaction – like a cat licking cream from its whiskers.

Four hours, three stops, and two cups of java later – I was back home – where Jeff, my boyfriend/not boyfriend, was waiting in front of my driveway with the desk.

“Sadie, what were you thinking? This is a piece of junk. Please tell me you got it for free?”, he grumbled as I slid out of my Jeep.

He leaned against the bed of his truck, arms folded, looking cute – but not happy. 

“Oh, come on, you can see it has great bones,” I said, resting my hand on the side of his face as I stood on my tip toes and gave him a light kiss. 

He looked into my eyes, sighed, and wrapped his arms around me. “You owe me.” 

I smiled.

“Okay, where do you want this thing?”

“Back porch, please?”

“Why don’t you go make us somethin’ to eat while I do your dirty work.”

“You got it,” I said with a wink.

As I walked up the sidewalk, my stomach sank. The lilacs, so full and

lush just hours ago, were dead. Their once vibrant petals had shriveled, decay clinging to them, burnishing the edges with shadow. Even though it felt morbid, I reached out to brush one with my fingertip. It crumbled to dust, carried away on the wind. 

I had enjoyed them while they lasted – until this morning. Now, an ominous feeling settled in my chest, hauntingly familiar, though I couldn’t understand why. The scent had been overwhelming earlier, almost stifling. And while I didn’t necessarily want them back, their sudden decay felt oddly personal.

Ten minutes later, we sat on the back patio, eating lunch and staring at the desk. I debated whether I should tell him about what I had experienced earlier. 

We had been seeing each other for about six months, and things were going mostly okay. He didn’t want to “put a label on things,” which felt like a little bit of a red flag, but I wanted to see where things went a little longer. He had some great qualities – only time would tell if they outweighed the rest.

I really did want things to progress between us, and they say communication is key – so I decided to tell him. 

As I told him the story, he ate his chicken salad sandwich and slurped his lemonade, his eyes fixed on me – except for the occasional glance at the desk.

When my story was over, he wiped his mouth with one of my daisy-covered napkins, downed the rest of his lemonade, and said, “Well then, let’s get this drawer open.”

He made quick work of the “stuck drawer” and, after searching for only a second, found the notch that slid back the false bottom. 

I couldn’t believe it. The false bottom alone was a stretch, but seeing the letter sitting there, in real life? Insane.

I reached into the drawer and picked up the envelope, my hands trembling just as Edith’s had – but for different reasons. 

The paper was aged, it’s edges rough and slightly brittle. I turned it over, lifted the flap and slowly pulled out the lilac-colored paper, careful not to damage it. Hauntingly beautiful, it was clearly handmade, bits of lilac petals pressed between its uneven fibers.

“Should I open it?” I glanced at Jeff.

He shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

I wasn’t sure. Edith’s eyes had been haunted, and while part of me felt like I was meant to open the letter, another part couldn’t shake the sadness in her eyes – it lingered, heavy and unsettling. 

Still, something pulled at me, urging me to open it.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I unfolded the letter – top first, then bottom. 

One single line stretched across the middle of the page:

I wanted to warn you. I was trapped. I am sorry.

I read the line again. 

A wave of dizziness washed over me - I could smell bacon. The room was spinning, my stomach was sick. Somewhere in the distance, Jeff was calling my name, but it was faint, muffled. 

The air was thick, damp and dank, clinging to my skin like old, mildewed laundry left to long in the wash. 

I couldn’t breathe.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember my breathing techniques. In for five, hold for four, out for seven. Or was it eight? Dammit. But my slow, deep breaths came out rattled. Reaching for the chair, I sank into it, resting my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. If I could just get my thoughts together.

All at once, visions of an entire lifetime slammed into me. Emotions crashed through me, too many to name. I felt joy, then sadness, heard laughter – then a baby’s first cry. My baby’s first cry? But everything was coated in darkness.

I opened my eyes. The lilac-colored paper lay on the desk in front of me – blank. My hand involuntarily moved, picking up a pen from nowhere. My breath was stuck in my throat as, in horror, I watched myself write: I tried to warn you. I was trapped. I am sorry.

“Sadie! I work all day to put food on this table – you think it’s gonna cook itself?”, Jeff’s voice thundered from the top of the staircase, just beyond the door leading into the house.

My stomach dropped as a wave of realization hit me so hard I would have fallen – if I weren’t already sitting. I turned to face the young girl behind me; I already knew she’d be there. My eyes met hers and I only knew of one way out.

With trembling hands and a heart heavy with guilt, I hurriedly stuffed the letter into the envelope, a single tear slipped down my cheek as I whispered, “I never should have opened that letter.”