As they stepped out of the second greenhouse, the air was soft with spring light, and a hush settled over the path between trees. Lira walked a few steps behind the herbalist, her thoughts still lingering on the unopened bud.
"I'll come every morning," she whispered to herself, "and I'll sing. The same songs I sang in the forest. The ones that kept me warm when the nights were cold."
Something in her chest stirred — like a thread tugging softly at the edge of a memory. A glimpse of how flowers leaned to the wind when she hummed, how they opened wider in the sun after she had sung nearby. Could it really be that they listened?
She let the thought rest gently, like a seed waiting for rain.
Just as they neared the bend in the path, a faint rustle came from the bushes. The herbalist had already turned toward the main house, but Lira paused. Peering between the leaves, she saw a small creature — a fox, or perhaps a lynx cub — breathing heavily, its side scraped and bleeding. Its golden eyes met hers, but it didn't run.
Lira knelt slowly, instinctively, and reached out a hand.
"Hey, little one," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the wind. "I won't hurt you."
As her fingers hovered just above its fur, a faint shimmer appeared — soft green waves, like heat rising from summer fields. Her breath caught. She stared, wide-eyed, as her palm began to glow. The light was warm, not blinding, pulsing gently in rhythm with her heartbeat.
"What... is this?" she whispered. But even as the question rose, her heart already knew.
The creature remained still, calm, and slowly — miraculously — the wounds along its side began to close. The torn fur knit back together, the skin smoothed, and the bleeding stopped.
Tears welled in her eyes, not from sadness but from awe.
When the glow faded, the animal stood carefully. It gave a small bow — a gesture too graceful to be mere instinct — then turned and padded quietly into the underbrush, glancing back once as if to say thank you.
Lira stayed there a long moment, hand still open, eyes full of wonder.
A new thought bloomed inside her — not loud, not demanding, just a quiet certainty:
"I'm not just meant to soothe the flower. I'm meant to soothe the wounded things — all of them. Including myself."
And so she rose, brushed the earth from her knees, and walked back to the house. Tomorrow, she would sing. And maybe the day after that, she would try again to heal.
The next morning, Lira spotted Maelin near the garden path, carrying a basket of herbs. They exchanged a few words, light and familiar, and as Maelin reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, Lira noticed a fresh scratch running across her hand.
Lira hesitated, then gathered her courage. "Can I try something?" she asked softly. "I'd like to see if I can heal it."
Maelin blinked, surprised, but after a heartbeat, she extended her hand without a word. There was trust in her eyes, quiet and steady.
Lira gently placed her palm over the wound. A soft shimmer of green light rippled between their skin. Warmth passed through her fingers, and as she pulled her hand back, they both stared at the spot where the scratch had been — smooth and whole again.
Maelin's mouth fell open. "Waw…" she breathed.
But Lira quickly looked around and leaned closer. "Please… don't tell anyone. I still don't know how this works."
Maelin nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. "Our secret," she whispered.
They smiled at each other, something unspoken passing between them — a beginning neither of them could yet name.
That afternoon, Lira returned quietly to the greenhouse, the soft scent of earth and green leaves wrapping around her like a gentle embrace. She found the flower nestled among the other plants, its petals still closed but glowing faintly with a delicate shimmer, as if holding a secret just beneath the surface.
Taking a deep breath, Lira settled near the flower and began to sing softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. The notes drifted through the air like a gentle breeze, weaving around the flower's slender stem. She watched closely as the shimmer grew brighter, sparkling like tiny stars caught in morning dew.
The flower didn't open yet, but Lira felt it respond — a subtle movement, a hopeful pulse in the quiet stillness. It was as if the flower was telling her it needed just a little more — a little more warmth, a little more song, a little more care.
With a quiet smile, Lira promised herself she would come back every day to sing, to listen, and to help that hidden bloom find its way to the light.
Later, back in her small, quiet room, Lira opened her treasured green book—a worn, leaf-patterned volume filled with sketches and notes about countless plants and their secrets. Her fingers traced the delicate drawing of the same flower she had just sung to, and she carefully read the descriptions of its needs, its nature, and the rare conditions under which it blossomed.
Then, thoughtfully, she added a new note in the margin, her handwriting soft but determined: "Responds to gentle singing—shimmer grows with sound. Needs warmth and calm." She paused, imagining how the vibrations of her voice might reach the flower's roots, how music could weave life into its petals.
Closing the book, Lira felt a flicker of hope. This was no ordinary flower, and her own care—the song, the presence—was part of its awakening. Tomorrow, she would return again, with her voice and heart ready to help it bloom.
The next day, Lira entered the second greenhouse with a new sense of purpose. The flower stood as it had the day before—shimmering faintly, still closed, as if hesitating. Lira approached slowly, the song already forming in her chest. But today, she thought of something different.
She remembered the fairy—how she once touched the soil with glowing hands before tending to a plant. Maybe it isn't just the voice, Lira thought. Maybe the roots need to feel safe too.
Kneeling beside the flower, she placed both hands gently on the earth surrounding it. Her breath deepened, and as she began to sing, a warm green shimmer pulsed from her palms, spreading into the soil like sunlight through deep water.
As her voice wove through the greenhouse, the flower responded.
First, a soft quiver in its stem. Then, slowly, gracefully, the petals began to unfurl—silken layers opening like secrets revealed. Shimmers of soft light clung to the edges, glowing even as the sun faded behind the glass roof.
Lira sat back in awe, her song fading to a whisper.
The fairy, who had silently appeared nearby, hovered with wide, astonished eyes. She looked from the flower to Lira, her face glowing with wonder.
"You did it," she whispered.
Lira smiled, heart full, the last notes still tingling in her fingertips. The flower, luminous even in the approaching dusk, stood open in full bloom—a quiet miracle born of voice, touch, and belief.
The fairy hovered closer, her wings humming with soft light. For a moment, she simply gazed at the blooming flower, then turned her eyes to Lira—wide with respect, even a hint of reverence.
"You have a gift," she said softly, landing beside the flower. "Not just anyone could awaken this blossom. It bloomed for you because you saw it, truly saw it—and helped it feel safe enough to open."
From a small pouch at her side, the fairy drew out a tiny, crystalline bottle no larger than Lira's thumb. She held it beneath the glowing petals, and the flower, as if understanding, let a single drop of golden nectar fall into the vial. The fairy sealed it with a twist of shimmering thread and offered it to Lira.
"This nectar," she said, placing it gently in Lira's hand, "is rare beyond words. It can heal even the deepest wounds—but only once. Keep it safe, and use it only when your life truly depends on it."
Lira looked at the glowing bottle, then at the flower, awe filling her chest.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The fairy smiled, her expression warm and kind. "You are welcome in this greenhouse any time, Lira. The flowers already know your heart."