Chapter 4 The Rule Of Silence

• The greenhouse was nearly complete. A structure of old glass panels, salvaged metal, and woven bamboo walls now stood beside her grandmother’s garden. It shimmered subtly in the daylight, as if holding its breath. Inside, Lucy moved with practiced care, her hands stained with soil and ash. Each plant she placed was carefully tended, each tree marked with symbols drawn in powdered bark and bone dust. The ring on her finger tingled faintly with use, a quiet echo of her grandmother's power.
• Inside, the air was warm and damp, rich with the scent of blooming herbs and old magic. It was a wonder in itself—not just for healing, but for survival. Her grandmother had started it. Lucy would continue it.
• But the garden, once open, was changing. Slowly, over weeks, the herbs and sacred plants that had grown in plain sight disappeared. Trees once rooted in the earth had vanished, transplanted carefully within the greenhouse where their roots could tangle in protected soil. The villagers noticed.
• At first, it was murmurs. Curious glances during morning walks, lingering looks from those who passed the old path that once led to open rows of herbs. The wooden fence around the garden remained untouched, and the gate remained unlocked. But inside, there was less to see.
• "Where has the sweetroot gone?" asked Aling Mira one morning, her basket empty. "I always took two bundles before my husband’s chest tightened with the rains."
• Lucy smiled gently. "The harvest was thinner this season. I can bring you some dried stock tomorrow."
• Aling Mira frowned but nodded. "That would help. Bless you, child."
• Others were less kind.
• "She’s hoarding," muttered one of the older men to another during market day. "Think she owns what her grandmother gave freely."
• "Doesn’t even sell the tinctures anymore."
• "Maybe she thinks she’s better than the rest of us now. City education does that."
• Lucy heard every word. She said nothing.
• The Rule of Silence. Her grandmother had named it so.
• Some truths are too heavy for mouths that speak in comfort and for others to know.
• The healing was theirs to share. The dreams and gifts were not.
• Still, the whispers grew. Soon, the elders came.
• They arrived as a group, four of them, their backs bent but their eyes sharp with the knowing gaze of those who had seen generations pass. Rina stood at their head, her walking stick clutched tightly, though Lucy knew she didn’t truly need it.
• "Lucy," she said that afternoon, her voice even. "May we speak with you?"
• Lucy stepped outside the greenhouse, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Of course."
• They sat beneath the lemon tree, now stripped bare. Lucy served tea, as her grandmother once did.
• "We’ve heard concerns," began Mang Felix, his voice gravelly. "The garden’s changed."
• "Some villagers feel left out," said another, Aling Rosa. "They say they’re being turned away."
• "No one’s been turned away," Lucy said calmly. "But many of the plants are fragile now. They need special care to survive the changing seasons."
• "So they’re all inside now? Hidden?" Felix raised a brow.
• "Protected," Lucy replied. "I still give what I can."
• Rina watched her, silent.
• "Your grandmother was generous," Rosa continued, sipping her tea. "She let us walk the garden freely."
• "She also tended it every day. I do the same," Lucy said. "But some plants are now dying; they need special attention. Children are running within the garden without regard for where they run to."
• "Then why not say so? Why the secrecy?"
• Lucy looked down at her hands. The ring pulsed lightly.
• "It isn’t secrecy if all of you can see what I am doing. No one came and asked; you all just assumed."
• Rina finally spoke. "You are not your Lola, Lucy, but you carry her legacy. The people expect what she gave. Are you saying you cannot give the same?"
• Sure! Here's a paraphrased version that keeps the same essence:
• "Is our willingness to share what we’ve nurtured something you feel entitled to take?"
• The air between them turned sharp.
• Lucy took a deep breath. "I will share what I can. As I can."
• There was silence. Then Rosa set her cup down.
• "Just don’t forget where you came from, girl."
• They left not long after, their steps slow, their glances longer than before. Lucy stood in the garden until the sun dipped low. She knew what would follow. More whispers. More doubt.
• That night, as moonlight filtered through the greenhouse glass, Lucy sat among the plants, tracing her grandmother’s symbols in soft ash. Her hands trembled with quiet rage. Not at the village. Not even at the elders.
• But at the heaviness of the silence.
• She whispered into the soil words that were not prayers, but promises.
• "I will not fail you."
• The roots glowed faintly beneath the leaves, responding.
• Two days later, the first theft occurred.
• A row of soulmint was gone, ripped carelessly from the ground. Some of the surrounding plants were trampled. Luckily, some can still be nurtured to health.
• Lucy stood over the empty patch, breath cold in the morning mist.
• It had begun.
• She reinforced the greenhouse, burying new symbols at its threshold. She moved the remaining outer herbs inside. The gate to the garden remained open, but now the pathways were bare. The villagers came and left, baskets empty.
• They stopped greeting her in the streets.
• She stopped going to the market.
• In the quiet of the greenhouse, Lucy continued her work. She dried herbs, made tinctures, and brewed oils. She sent packages to the sick when she could, leaving bundles on doorsteps anonymously. Some were accepted. Others returned.
• It didn’t matter.
• The garden was no longer just a place. It was armor.
• She sat by the spiral of stones one evening, eyes closed, listening.
• The wind rustled the lemon tree. Somewhere, a bird called once, then fell silent.
• Lucy breathed in deeply.
• "You knew this would happen, didn’t you, Gran?"
• No answer. Just the echo of memory. A soft laugh in the dusk. A hum in the soil.
• The following week, Rina returned. Alone.
• "They say you’ve closed the garden," she said without greeting.
• "It was never closed," Lucy answered. "Only moved."
• Rina studied her for a long moment.
• "The garden’s changed," she said, more softly. "Your grandmother’s old garden was dying before you returned. It needed care. These greenhouses—this was the only way to save what she left."
• "It was," Lucy said. "If I hadn't moved them when I did, I would’ve lost more."
• "So why not say that to them?"
• "I tried. They don’t ask to understand. They ask to accuse."
• Rina’s gaze lowered. "There was a thief?"
• "Yes," Lucy said tightly. "The soulmint was taken, ripped from the ground. The roots were severely damaged. It was the last one that could be cultivated for more seedlings. Now gone for good."
• Unless I get more seedlings from the Sanctuary.
• Rina looked away. "They think you’ll close the gate next, that you’ll turned them away."
• "All they have to do is ask, and I will provide as long as it’s possible."
• Rina stepped closer, her voice quieter now. "You’re careful. I see that. But they won’t. They only see change, and that frightens them."
• "You saw the garden before. You came here," Lucy said, her voice flat. "And you said nothing."
• Rina lifted her chin. "Because I respected her, and I respect you, but I never understood what she did, only that the land flourished under her hands. Now, you and the land still answer. That should be enough."
• "Yes, it answers," Lucy breathed. "But not the way it did with Lola. It cannot truly answer me the way it answered her. We are different—too different in that regard."
• Rina’s gaze softened. "Just be ready. Fear grows fast, faster than weeds."
• The Rule of Silence remained unbroken.
• But outside the greenhouse, beyond the warded walls, the world was changing. The winds were colder. The night's longer. And the villagers, once kind, now watched with narrowed eyes.
• Inside the greenhouse, Lucy whispered to the roots, the leaves, and the soil.
• "I am still here. I will be ready."
• And the garden answered in bloom and silence.