Don't Forget the Garden

The house had been silent for years, but not empty. It held its breath in the walls, in the floorboards that creaked without weight, in the attic where dust settled like ash over forgotten things.

When Elian inherited it, he thought he was inheriting grief. What he found instead was a door behind a bookshelf—sealed with wax and wire—and a room that did not echo back, because it never stopped echoing.

The door seemed to be an afterthought in the architecture—narrow, crooked, sealed with a waxy residue that flaked like old skin. Elian hadn’t meant to find it. He was cataloguing the house’s decay, photographing mold blooms and water stains for the insurance claim, when the bookshelf shifted under his hand and a stale breeze drifted through.

Excitement and curiosity thumped at his chest. He thought, if his memory served him correctly, that he knew every inch of this house even though it had been years since he stepped foot inside.

Secrets.

He pulled at the shelf, dislodging it from the wall and scattering dust into the air in small swirls and plumes. It was dark, the scent of mold and long forgotten things filled his senses as he descended the curving wooden stairs.

Feeling along the wall, he found a switch at the bottom and flicked it on. There were no windows, no doors either, only a single small room with a chair in the center and an old recorder resting in the seat. The walls were lined with what looked like acoustic foam, though older, stranger—like fossilized honeycomb.

The air was thick, not with dust, but sound. A low resonant hum, like a choir breathing in unison. The hum sharpened as he stepped further inside.

A voice whispered his name, but it hadn't come from the recorder, but the wall itself.

"Elian."

His heart hammered with something else now. Fear, uncertainty, and recognition.

He knew that voice. It was his mother's voice. Even though she had long since passed, there was no mistaking it.

It echoed again, like a reaching hand through time and memory.

"Elian, don't forget the garden."

Fear and wonder gripped him in place. His thoughts alternating between turning back and sealing the room off for good and taking just a few more steps forward—toward the sound of the voice.

Against his more logical thoughts, he started toward the wall, sparing a glance at the recorder in the chair. Powerless, dust coated, and idle. He brushed his fingers across the wall, small bits of foam tumbling away like breadcrumbs.

The hum was still present, an ever-growing pressure building in his chest and ears, but layered within was something else, something . . . alive.

A click from behind startled him. The small wheels of the recorder began turning of their own accord. Elian let his hand fall away from the wall and took a few slow steps toward the chair and picked up the recorder.

He turned it about in his hand. There was nothing out of the ordinary that he could find. It looked exactly like an old, outdated recorder. There was no familiarity that he could think of. He had never seen his mother with one, let alone his father, not that a carpenter would have use for one anyhow.

But holding it in his hand, he could feel a memory tugging at his subconscious—too far to clearly grasp. He slid his thumb over the dusty surface toward the side and pressed the play button.

The room rippled. Not just the air, but everything. The sudden wave had him faltering back a few steps as he tried to regain clarity.

The recorder didn't make a sound, and the hum had all but quieted. He turned back toward the stairs, recorder still in hand. There had to be an explanation for what he had witnessed and felt. Perhaps there was some sort of gas leak that he was unaware of. It would explain the slight wooziness that he felt, and the shift in the room. Possibly the pressure as well.

As Elian slipped from behind the bookcase, carefully pushing it shut, he turned around and noticed the changes.

The floors were clean and freshly polished. The furniture no longer covered in dust and sun-faded sheets. The sun coming through the window even felt brighter.

An apple rested on the small table by the armchair, freshly bitten and glistening with juices. His eyes traveled the room, taking note of all the things that were different, like the calendar on the wall that read April 12th, 1997—the day his mother died.

It was the gas, he thought. It had to be. He must have been down there too long, breathed in too much, and now he was hallucinating. It was the only plausible explanation.

A clinking of dishes echoed from the kitchen, and Elian ran toward the sound without hesitation. When he reached the end of the hall, he stopped just short of the doorway.

His mother stood at the counter, her back turned as she filled her kettle with water. Without turning around, she called out to him. "Elian, don't forget the garden. Your father wants those weeds pulled up before lunch."

He gripped the wall to keep himself upright but couldn't bring himself to speak. Stumbling away, Elian braced himself along the wall until he reached the living room and sat on the sofa. The sofa that was no longer torn with springs pushing their way through the cushions.

Elian sat in a stupor. It didn't feel like a hallucination. It was too real to be one. His mother's voice, the gentle curves of her honey brown hair, even the lingering smell of her perfume. Lilac and lavender.

The bottle had broken years ago, but it was a scent that always reminded him of her. Elian looked down to the recorder in his hand. It had grown warm against his palm.

An idea occurred to him, but even entertaining such a ludicrous thought felt insane. He remembered the way the room rippled when he pressed the button. The shift in the air, and the room might not have been just that. It could have been a shift in time.

Elian pressed up from the sofa, racing back down the hall toward his father's old study. Pushing the bookshelf aside, he tore down the stairs once more. This room was the same.

Exactly the same as when he first entered. No change in the staleness and scent of mold, pressure steadily built as he neared the center of the room and faced the now empty chair.

There was only one way to test it.

He took a seat in the chair and exhaled deeply as he pressed the button. The room rippled again, almost tipping him out of the chair. The hum returned, loud and strong, the voice, his mothers, layered between.

She was still calling out to him.

He ran back up the stairs, back into the desolate study. No apple, no calendar, and nothing clean. Warped floorboards creaked underfoot. This was the present.

Elian sat in thought for a while with his back against the bookshelf and his hands in his hair. The recorder rested on the floor nearby. His thoughts traveled so many places but kept returning to one—could he save her?

Scooping the recorder up from the floor, Elian retreated back down the stairs. His heart was a cacophony of erratic beats as he sat and pushed the button.

He took the stairs two at a time, rushing through the house, and out the back as the screen door slammed shut behind him with a rattle.

The garden.

An overgrowth of weeds and flowers, bees buzzing about as they collected pollen. He gathered the rake from where he left it all those years ago—strewn across the stone path that led to the fountain.

He had been in such a hurry that day, he didn't bother to pick it up—didn't bother to finish pulling the weeds. He just raced out on his bike to meet with his friends at the park.

He recalled hearing the sirens but thought nothing of it. Not until his father's truck rumbled to a hard stop against the curb.

"Elian," he cried. "Get in the damn truck. Now."

Elian had turned to his friends, assuming he was in trouble for not finishing his chores, but he had no idea it was something much worse.

His mother had fallen. Tripped over the rake and split her head on the fountain. It was his fault. It was his fault, and he never forgave himself. He didn't think his father did either. He became elusive after his mother's death. Never leaving his study, hardly speaking to Elian, let alone sparing him a glance.

As soon as Elian came of age, he left home and never looked back. All this house had ever been to him, was one bad memory after another—unless he could fix it.

With the rake carefully stowed in the shed, Elian finished pulling all the weeds from the garden. Something he should have finished long ago. He could see his mother's silhouette in the kitchen window as she made her tea and began preparing lunch.

He swiped a hand under his eyes and snuck through the back door, and back through the bookcase.

He sat and pressed the button.

After the ripple passed, he raced up the stairs only to find the study still desolate, still dusty, and still devoid of his mother.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and searched for the newspaper report of her death.

"Local woman, Eloise Mayfield, dies after slipping on wet stone near the garden fountain. Authorities believe the accident occurred during routine yardwork."

Again.

Elian cleared the garden, stowed the rake, and cut the water to the fountain.

"Eloise Mayfield dies after exposure to toxic fumes from improperly stored pesticides in the garden shed. Investigators believe the chemicals had degraded over time."

Again.

Elian cleared the garden, stowed the rake, cut the water, and threw out the old pesticides.

"Eloise Mayfield, 42, died of anaphylactic shock after sustaining multiple bee stings while tending her garden. Family reports she had no known allergies."

Bees? Elian sighed as he thought of another plan to get rid of the bees.

Again.

Elian cleared the garden, stowed the rake, cut the water, threw out the pesticides, and bagged the beehive with a pillowcase.

"Tragedy struck yesterday when a small brush fire consumed part of the Mayfield garden. Eloise Mayfield was found unconscious near the shed and later pronounced dead."

Elian stormed into the study. His frustration and helplessness were beyond even his own comprehension. Why did nothing work? Why couldn't he save her?

He screamed until his voice was ragged and threw the recorder against the wall. A ripple reverberated through the house and the sunlight retreated to the flicker of a candle.

It was night, his father was sitting at his desk, one hand tangled in his hair as the other scribbled furiously on scattered papers.

Elian stood frozen against the bookshelf, watching as his father sipped a glass of brandy, pushing papers to the floor as he dug through them.

He wanted to sink to his knees. He wanted place his hand on his fathers. He wanted to cry, and he wanted to hug him. He wanted so many things, but above all, he just wanted to make things right.

"Dad?" he said—his voice broken and cracked.

His father looked up sharply. His eyes darted between Elian and the open bookshelf.

He shook his head. "No, no. No, Elian. You can't be here. You can't get dragged into this."

Elian stepped toward his father. "I tried to save her dad. It was my fault. I tried to fix it. I tried everything." Each word sounded more desperate, and more broken than the last.

His father stood, moving around the desk with practiced ease. He put his hands on Elian's shoulders—steadying, comforting, strong. "It was never your fault Elian, and I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you. Your mother—she loved you, and she wouldn't want this. Not for either of us."

"But I could save her, if I just—"

"No, you can't save her. I have tried everything. Every possible way to change what happened in the garden, but life, fate, or time, whatever it is, it always finds a way to correct it. We can't bring her back. We can't save her. All we can do is remember her."

Elian hugged his father as a sob escaped from deep within. All the years of buried emotions flooding to the surface. All the years he spent thinking his father hated him, were years his father had spent trying to change the past, to save his mother.

"I'll always remember her . . . and you."

His father's lips pursed tight to stop the quiver, but there was no hiding the glint of tears in the candlelight.

Elian gathered the recorder from the floor and said goodbye to his father, knowing that it would be the last time he would have the chance to, and then he pressed the button.

Daylight and dust filled the study; his father washed away with the ripple like a faded memory. Elian pushed the bookshelf closed and walked out to the garden.

The weeds were overgrown, and the fountain long clogged and filled with stagnant green water. This was his mother's favorite place. The last place she ever stood.

His heart ached, but it ached with fondness—and forgiveness. It took time. Time, and work, but Elian restored the garden. Planted lilacs and roses, lavender and thyme. He spent two weeks building a bench with his parents' names carefully engraved into the wood and set it beside the fountain.

He would never forget the garden.