it’s frigid. though i suppose it’s nothing new; the air has been permeated with frost for as long as i can remember. i run my hand over the soft wool of the blanket in my lap and feel each perfect stitch under my fingertips. it’s a soft yellow color, knitted by my mother as she sat next to the once roaring hearth that now lies cold and desolate in the corner of the cabin. the blanket looks pale without the warm light of the fire, and i can’t seem to tell whether it has faded with age or if the color left along with her.

she would always hum songs i had no hope of recognizing, but i lay entranced at her feet by the melodies she spun along with her yarn. her third trimester stomach kept it well out of her reach, so she relied on me to delicately feed her a steady stream from the tangled nest that lay in a wicker basket by her creaky old rocking chair. each move, each stitch brought on another creak or whine, the chair seeming to syphonize with her soft voice. the fire crackled and hissed, punctuating her recital. it seemed as if every sound would harmonize with her, each hoping to play their part in a symphony i had never heard before or since. the blanket has long been finished and the symphony has trailed off, only serving to remind me of what is lost. on the bottom right corner, just above the lace border is an embroidered inscription: for my little blossom

it was her nickname for the baby, as none of us could think of anything better. we of course had much more pressing matters on our minds as the winter had started early and left us with barren fields and empty cupboards. so my mother called it her blossom, convinced that with his birth our luck would change.

he succumbed to the cold soon after my mother brought him into the world. she died without holding him, her hair plastered to her face with perspiration. her last words were too faint for me to make out but i thought i heard her call out for her blossom one final time. i was left trembling at her bedside with a thrashing blanket-swaddled mass shrieking in my arms. i laid him upon his mother, but all i could do was watch as he flailed and cried in her increasingly cold arms. i buried her by the garden she used to tend to, which the winter had turned it into a more suitable resting place. the flowers and fruit she had so carefully cultivated were replaced by cold black earth, scorched with frost. i did what i could to return it to it’s former glory but i was not my mother. this much was readily apparent. all i managed was a large stone dragged from the frozen riverbed and hastily carved before the cold took the use of my fingers.

months pass. the ward and i did not get along. with the last of the goats butchered long ago, any hope of milk was laughable. this, coupled with the mere dregs of the last pitiful harvest before the desiccated ground was covered in snow, did not bode well for my new responsibility. i would plead with him to eat what little dried fruit and seeds i could scrounge up. he would have none of it, of course, opting instead to wail at a deafening volume. eventually his wails dropped to a whisper, his face still contorted in a silent caterwaul. i would spend hours ransacking every inch of the cabin, hoping to find even a drop of milk or a crumb of grain. no matter how many times i would rip the cabinets apart their hollowness remained unchanged in the face of my desperation. there were times i thought of slitting my wrists only to put them to his mouth and let him drink his fill. perhaps in death i could be of use to him.

i was not much better off. as the time passed, the winter only grew more settled in its rage, trapping us in the only refuge from the cold for miles. slowly, i notice the hunger. it is enough to stave off at first, enough that i can satiate myself with a few cups of water from melted snow. but it does not stay quiet for long. my stomach growls and shrieks as i try to drown it with as much water as i can take. but my stomach is not alone in its crusade. my hair thins and my hands start to shake. i could ignore it for as long as i pleased, but my hunger had started to eat away at my very existence. but i knew my own hunger was incomparable to my brothers. i could not bear to watch as his whispers faded to silence, his throat torn from his cries, his lips parched and cracked. i instead did what little i could, tearing the cabin apart piece by piece and plank by plank, praying for something to materialize. perhaps a family of squirrels had died in the walls, perhaps an abandoned birds nest still held an egg or two. anything. the floorboards near the old rocking chair were the last to go.

i could not seem to bring myself to rip apart what few memories gave me solace, but that luxury had long been taken from me. i slowly dropped to my knees, the cold and malnutrition sapping my dwindling strength, my already cracked fingers bleeding profusely as i pryed up the rotting wood. it did not come up without it’s price, taking three of my fingernails with it. i shakily dropped the plank as i fell on my side, mocked once more by the emptiness beneath. my breath came out in puffs of condensation, shallow and rapid from even that much exertion. that was it. a last chance at survival had given way to the final verdict.

i figured in these last moments neither of us wished to be alone, my only motivation as i tried to get to my feet. but there it was. out of the very corner of my eye, tucked neatly far behind where the baseboards ended, nearly inside the wall. something stood out amongst the cobwebs and accumulated dust, a color that had no earthly business being in this wasteland. with new resolution i reached as far as my arm would go, past the support beams and long abandoned spiderwebs, the winter had left my arms bony and slender, allowing me to contort much farther than any person should. my shoulder pressed against the inside of the floorboards, and my exposed ribcage lay against the freezing ground. every joint in my body and every cell in my anatomy strained reaching for the last sliver of hope i had left.

just when it felt like my flesh was about to tear, i felt the cool skin of a leather-bound book brush against the tips of my fingers. i slowly removed my now scraped and bleeding arm out of the hollow, at the end of which was a neatly bound and somewhat faded but vibrant as ever red leather journal. it was held together by a rough woven twine, unmistakebly the same kind my father would use all those years ago. it bound our firewood, stitched our clothes, and tied our laces. my mother had razed the cabin of every trace of him citing her hatred for anything that remotely connected us to him. it took quite a while, and at times it seemed like it was only that twine which held our family together. i hadn’t seen it in years. i unwrapped the book only for it to fall open in my hands, to a page near the beginning. i quickly stopped the enclosed objects from slipping out, clutching them close to my chest. upon further inspection, i could identify a faded film photograph and something else i did not quite recognize. on the left side of the page was my fathers messy handwriting, lines and passages surrounding various diagrams. it detailed the genus and species of various plants, most of which i did not recognize. some of the basic entries were plants i knew, crops and grain we grew before the land became barren. the others had no such purpose listed, only their color, scent, and a surprisingly detailed sketch. they were like no plants i had ever seen. instead of the monochrome thistles of wheat i knew, they had delicate stems and brushstrokes of colors highlighting the swooping curves. some had tall blooming whorls, crescendoing out into small cups of nectar. others had petals upon petals, overlapping over and over to form a blossom. i could not help but wonder if these were merely drawings, a hopeful fiction my father had conjured up to save himself from the winter’s damnation. this was quickly dispelled as i examined the enclosed objects. the photograph was of my mother; or a version of her i suppose. she did not have the lines of worry scoring her forehead, or the dark bags that had settled under her eyes. she was… happy. even in the faded old film photo her eyes had a shine to them, coalesced into a glow with the toothy smile on her face. behind her ear, tucked neatly amongst the locks of hair was identical to the other enclosed object. it had long since dried out, pressed neatly into a diagram of itself. it was a deep crimson, almost black. the center was a cluster of velvety petals, with spirals of them stacked upon one another surrounding it. the pattern seemed to disappear into itself, finding a new place to start and end every single time. it had not lost an atom of detail, its hypnotizing pattern preserved in between the sheets of yellowing paper. it seemed weightless in my hand, yet i could not fathom an object of such beauty being confined to the bounds of my palm. i looked back at the photo, the same flower brushing softly against my mothers cheek. behind the photo was an inscription that had long since been rubbed off, but i knew exactly what it said. my blossom.

a faint cry roused me from my thoughts. the journal fell from my hands as i scrambled to the little woven basket my brother lay in. the very same basket from all those years ago, the yarn now tangled and forgotten under the blankets i had laid for him. his face was pale, and the cries that once echoed around the cabin were replaced with a labored gurgle. scooping him up as gently as my shaking arms could, i pressed him against my chest for whatever sliver of warmth i could provide, while i frantically searched for something, anything i could give him. the flower. it had to be something. it had to do something. i crawled over to the dropped specimen and scooped it into my hand, crushing it with what little strength remained in my withering body. i turned my head away as the once eternalized beauty crumbled to dust under my fingers. i could not look at what i had to destroy, could not bear to see the only shred of life for miles around meet its end within my fist. i had not time to mourn however, with the baby’s cries growing fainter and my own body on the verge of collapse. i held my fist to his mouth, praying that i could trickle just a few crumbs of sustenance past his lips. but his expression had turned far too peaceful. once more i let the mangled remains of the flower fall across his mouth, praying with every fiber of my being that he would resume the cries that had plagued me for so long. but like so many others, my prayers fell on deaf ears. the contorted wail that normally resided on his face was replaced with an eerie calm as i felt his body slow then stiffen. my head fell back and my shoulders went slack, barely managing to keep him in my arms. there was no solace from above though, nothing up there but rotting wooden beams and seemingly endless darkness. but i still dared not to look down, hoping to tilt my head back far enough to stop the precious water from streaming down my face.

it wasn’t long before the cabin was once again deafeningly silent, save for the howling wind. It screeched and clawed at every crack it could find in the dilapidated cabin, like some sort of beast intent on my demise. it stalked outside, back and forth around the perimeter, waiting patiently until I fell victim to it’s icy grip as well. it seemed to call out to me, whispers carried ever so faintly alongside the zephyr. there was a sort of comfort out there, a comfort that nothing in this cabin could provide me any longer. the cold offered relief, a respite from my pitiful damnation. perhaps i could be reunited with everything it has taken from me. but i could not seem to move myself from my position, my knees nearly frozen to the floor. his body grew colder and colder in my arms, no matter how close i held him to me. my own waning warmth could do nothing for him; in fact no part of me could do anything for him now. the whispers seem to grow louder the longer i stayed limp on the floor, soothing my anguish, offering to quell my agony in the wintery bliss that lay beyond the cabin walls. i tear myself free from the floor’s hold, shakily rising to my feet. though my muscles feel as if they are ripping themselves off of my bones i dare not make the slightest movement to jostle the baby. i gingerly make every move necessary, as if the smallest disturbance will wake him, as if he is simply sleeping without a care. however, each step i take threatens my collapse as i stumble towards the door.

it seems like an eternity of one laborious footfall after another before i finally raise my head to look at the scarred plank of wood that lay between me and my freedom. the entrance has long since been firmly nailed shut, eternally struggling to keep the elements at bay. i extend my unencumbered hand and scratch at the various fixtures scattered across the door frame. the cold metal remains unchanged save for my blood smearing across and staining the wood. i step back and breathe deep, letting the air stab my lungs with its frosty needles. it escapes in a swirling puff that quickly dissipates back into the air. i fall, letting my body slam against the door with an audible crack. weathered and brittle from the unrelenting winter, it shatters under my weight, but i cannot seem to attribute the sound to the door or my now mangled shoulder. my injury is quickly tended to by the sheet of snow i fall into. it sucks the heat from my very bones, leaving me indistinguishable from my surroundings. but not yet. not yet. the cold, or perhaps shock has managed to numb me from the sensation of my fragmented bones grinding against each other as i rise to my feet once more, and perhaps the final time. raising myself up, i feel the wind unleash its wrath upon my face. taking what little feeling i had left and leaving me with pins and needles dancing across my cheeks. my head falls, to look at the baby is what i tell myself, but more likely i simply cannot support its weight anymore. he looks as peaceful as ever, unbothered by the cold. the rosy hue of his cheeks is gone, swept away by the wind, and in its place is a dull sheen matching his glassy eyes. i run my hand across his forehead, sweeping the few wispy hairs he had managed to grow off his face. but even in this tundra and bone chilling wind, the only thing i feel is the bite of iciness radiating from his flesh.

my odyssey through the permafrost continues, the path obscured both by the storm and the black spots that now wander through my vision. my newly lame arm swings with every step, the other wrapped around my brother, nestling him as close to me as i possibly can. one after the other my feet drag through the heavy snow, accumulated to well above my knee. my path is carved through the terrain, and the echoes of my footsteps etched into the very earth. it isn’t long before my knee slams against something much too solid and unforgiving to be snow or ice. even buried under a mountain of snow i know exactly what rests here, or rather who. i sweep the layers of precipitation off the small boulder i had used to mark her grave, revealing the roughly carved letters. mom. i sway slowly and fall. for the last time, i know it. my knees hit the ground under me with another audible crack. shakily, i lift the bundled blanket, the soft yellow now thoroughly stained with red, and lay it upon the stone, as if in offering to some twisted god. but i cannot stop just yet. i cannot leave him in the cold with nothing but my broken corpse. not when his mothers embrace is so near. i claw at the frozen earth beneath, the jagged crystals of ice tearing at my skin. once the earth deems my offering worthy, the steaming blood melts the snow and gives way to the soil. it is just as hard and barren as i remember, not fit for anything to call home other than the veins of ice that have dug into the earth. one after the other i tear fistfuls of dirt from the ground, leaving my remaining fingernails embedded in the soil. but it craves more. no matter how much i give, it never seems enough to satiate its hunger. the tips of my fingers wear away with every scratch i make against the earth, letting me feel the icy air against my exposed bone. but still it remains ravenous, tearing the flesh from my arms and letting a new wave of crimson quench its thirst. it seems as if i have nothing left to give just before a flash of color reveals itself, a swatch of cloth. my mothers dress. i had buried her in the only one she had preserved from the mothballs, a faded yellow gown. it had the same ethereal hue as the blanket that lay on the gravestone above, as if the remnants of the sunlight that had once graced it clung for dear life.

i didn’t need to dig any deeper. my arms shake, now barely able to support their own weight, and raise themselves up to retrieve the offering i had left upon the stone. i lower him down to reunite mother and son, finally allowing them rest. my fingers had long since stopped responding to my commands, the hand of my mangled arm still frozen in a clenched fist i cannot seem to release. i use what little feeling i had left to sweep the earth back into its rightful place. it still has just a bit of warmth from the flesh it had taken from me, allowing me to mold it into a solid ground once more. nothing remains of my work other than a slightly warm patch of bare earth amongst the layers of snow. done. finally done. as if knowing my purpose had been fulfilled, i lose all control and feel my body fall forward. my head slams against the stone with a final resounding crack and leaves its smeared crimson mark on the rock. with a final breath i turn my broken body, allowing my back to rest against the stone. its cold, a feeling that manages to break through the numbness encasing my body. with each labored beat, the flow of blood goes from torrential to a rhythmic dripping.

the snow around me has been permeated with my filth, and i can see the flakes of ice fall from the heavens only to disintegrate in the face of my disgrace. it blooms out around me, following the crystalline patterns replacing the purest white with the deepest crimson. finally free from my reign, my limbs refuse my commands, opting instead to settle into their final rest. as each muscle relaxed, the shattered bones in my arm are released from their post, forcing my clenched fist to finally loosen its grip. fractured petals and granules spill from my palm. had i not known what it was, i might have mistaken it for dust. i watch as it mixes with my blood and trickles off my fingertips, seeping into the earth. nothing happened for quite a while after that. or nothing out of the ordinary, i suppose. my heart stopped in a timely manner, my body freezing in place, though from the cold or the from the rigor i cannot seem to determine. months after my demise it is apparent that the winter was not everlasting, and with the new age comes my reckoning. the flesh peels from my bones, helped every so often by animals that have returned to their once forgotten homes. a wolf with a dirty brown coat, changing for the seasons, no doubt, is the first to lay his claim. he nuzzles around my neck, where the scent of blood has been released from the frost that bound it. his nose is wet and cold, though in a way i am not entirely familiar with. whiskers scratch against my skin as muscle and sinew tear against his teeth. he enjoys his meal, wasting nothing before licking my exposed ribcage clean and taking his leave. time passes. the next is a sparrow, gliding down from branches way above into the rats nest i used to call hair. she takes her time, combing through the locks until she finds the perfect one to pluck from my scalp. she makes the journey a few times, picking only the finest strands to build her nest. gracing my face with a gentle gust, she returns to her young now safely ensconced in their newly constructed home. time passes. the following visitor is a family of mice. they scout the area thoroughly before settling into my ribcage. it is not long before the squealing of little pink pups radiates out of my chest. they scamper in between the remains of my abdomen, gnawing at my calcified bones. time passes. there is a final settler that now calls my body home. though i cannot fathom how much time has passed, there is no doubt in my mind of what pokes up from beneath the earth, clawing it’s way to the light. just as i begin to crumble, the smallest red blossoms have just began to bloom.

“I didn’t know a lotus could bloom outside this time of year.”

The garden is small, but well-kept: clusters of peonies; wisterias growing off vines; bushes of hydrangeas in lilac, periwinkle, and pink. And there, in a small pond, a lotus in full bloom at the dwindling end of winter. There isn’t a hint of ice on the surface of the water despite puffs of foggy breath swirling together between the two women standing under starlight.

The owner of the garden smiles, even and polite. She’s tall and willowy, with pin-straight hair that brushes against the backs of her knees; a conspicuous figure amongst the gently curving grasses and leaves. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

The village is small. It always has been—even after the narrow, dirt roads were paved; even after horses were traded in for metal boxes; even after the villagers decided they preferred staring at an image of a flower on a screen the size of their palm over feeling the softness of a petal under their fingertips. Even if the villagers have little interest in herbs and bouquets now, the gardener knows every face that resides in this village.

The outsider’s mouth—full, like a blooming rose—quirks up into a smile. “I was just passing by.”

“I don’t get many visitors these days.” Especially not this late into the evening, especially not from someone out of town.

“Could I have a tour?” The visitor steps closer, cold dirt crunching under her shoes. “My name is Nitya.”

It doesn’t take long to walk through the serpentine path, but the gardener stops to point out each flower with care: tulips, marigolds, and daisies. And her care shines through; not a single flower wilts under her watch. Each one of them is in perfect bloom, even if the flower is months away from when it should be thriving. No two flowers are the same, delineated by a label with a single letter and a year. The latest addition—a burgundy dahlia—was brought in twelve years ago.

Minutes pass by as though clock hands have been caught in sap. Nitya’s movements are slow too, like a fawn taking her first steps into the vast world before her. Maybe this is her first time in a garden like this; the world has changed so much, after all. Maybe she lives in one of those towns where the buildings reach towards the clouds and artificial lights glitter brighter than the stars.

But Nitya’s hands are gentle when they brush over the rounded leaves of a money plant. And in turn, the stems almost seem to surge towards her touch, as if asking for more.

The moon finally peeks out from behind a cloud when Nitya leaves. But before she can take the last two steps over the threshold, she turns back, loose curls fluttering around her heart-shaped face. “I didn’t catch your name.”

When the owner of the garden smiles this time, it’s a slow rearrangement of sharp features settling into something softer. “Pallavi.”

“Where did you find all these flowers?” If Nitya was beautiful under the gentle light of the moon, then she’s radiant under the warmth of the sun. “I’ve seen photos of many of these, but some I’ve never heard of at all.”

Nitya returns to the garden again and again, each visit longer than the last. Sometimes Nitya wanders in silence as Pallavi watches. And sometimes, like today, she talks up a storm.

Pallavi traces her fingers over the ridges of the trunk of the tree they sit under: the only cherry blossom in her possession. “A visitor like you gifted this to me.”

“A visitor like me?” Nitya looks up at Pallavi through her long, long eyelashes.

A few petals flutter down between them from the branches above. “Years ago, back when the borders of this land were open.”

“And they gifted it to you personally?”

“I invited her to dinner, and she gave me this in return.” Pallavi’s eyes soften at the memory.

“An entire tree?” Nitya laughs, a chime in the wind. “But cherry blossoms don’t grow here, I know that much. And if this was from before the barriers—well, that would make you at least eighty years old.”

“Maybe I am.” Pallavi offers a wry smile. There isn’t a single wrinkle on her face. “Maybe I’ve been around for even longer.”

Time passes differently in this garden. Pallavi can’t recall exactly how long she’s been here, how many seasons have passed by. But she doesn’t forget a single visitor, no matter how fleeting their time may have been.

The trunk of the tree is thick. The bark is rough under Pallavi’s skin. When Nitya doesn’t reply, she draws her hand back. “Are you frightened?”

“Should I be?”

A fair question, but not one that’s often asked. Pallavi tilts her head back. She’s seen peace and war, she’s seen humans reach the furthest depths of the sea and heights beyond what should be possible. She’s seen societies curl back into themselves, shunning the world around them that they had worked so hard to amalgamate. But the sky is the same blue it’s always been since the first time she opened her eyes. “I believe fear is born from misunderstanding.”

Gentle fingers curl around Pallavi’s wrist, Nitya’s palm hot where Pallavi’s skin is cool. “I’m not afraid.”

It’s a rainy afternoon when Nitya reaches for her hand again, her skin warm and slick after refusing any sort of cover. Mud spatters across her feet with each step, soft soles unused to earth beneath them. Her fingers trail over a chrysanthemum. “You’re surrounded by reminders of your lovers, then.”

Droplets of rain cling to Pallavi’s eyelashes, momentarily blurring the image of Nitya when she blinks. But she refuses to miss a single second and fights to keep her eyes open. The woman before her no longer feels like a mere visitor. No—she looks like she belongs here, like she’s been a part of this little garden all along. “You aren’t jealous?”

“How could I be when they gave you company?” It isn’t the first time Nitya has brought up her concerns: It must be lonely to exist in this world for as long as you have. She worries, perhaps too much, about every being around her—from her elderly neighbors to her peers, as undeserving as they are; from the smallest dandelion to the undying woman who has tended to a humble garden for centuries. Nitya is kind, perhaps to a fault.

This chrysanthemum was planted seventy-six years ago: the sprout bursted through the soil long before Nitya’s soul touched the earth. “Then, do you want to know who this was from?”

The garden is an archive, a book bound with yellowed pages and petals carefully pressed within.

She tells Nitya about Sanjana, the priest’s daughter. Aisha, the governor’s wife. Chandni, the sister of the crown prince. She tells Nitya about Bhavana, the spinster. Farah, the maiden, promised to the merchant’s son in the next village over. Jyoti, who was like Nitya in some regard, brimming with possibilities, yet—in quieter moments, when shadows would envelop her face—listless.

“But they didn’t have to be all those things with you, did they?” Nitya wraps her arms around Pallavi’s waist, pulling her closer, raindrops dancing over her cheeks.

Back then, ensnared in the storm of politics, Aisha would call the garden an oasis and Chandi likened it to the grounds she’d gallivant as a child. Sanjana said it was a reprieve from witnessing her father’s dealings behind drawn curtains, where paper and coins were stronger than a sermon.

This whole town thinks there is something wrong with me, is what Bhavana said, mouth set in a grim line that came to soften with time.

I hope they find something wrong with me, is what Farah lamented, adamant on freeing herself from her impending marriage.

And Jyoti whispered before giving Pallavi a bluebell with drooping indigo petals: I wish I knew what was wrong with me.

“Here, they only had to be Sanjana, Aisha, and Chandni.” The back of Nitya’s hand brushes over a lily. It sways closer in return. “They didn’t have to be more than Bhavana, Farah, and Jyoti.”

Pallavi dips her chin, her hair forming a curtain around their faces. “What makes you so sure of that?”

“When I’m with you, I only ever have to be me.”

Nitya stays for years.

She stays through sweltering summers and frigid winters. She stays through weeks of dry when most flowers would cry, and weeks of rain when most flowers would sing. And the flowers never changed, always perfectly in bloom.

But Nitya changes. It starts with a single hair turned gray in a head full of inky black. Then, a wrinkle between her brows, at first only visible when she frowns. And then, lines on either side of her mouth, a vestige of her laugh. She’d complain of a chill and her joints would ache if she sat on soil for too long to tend to the bush of roses she’d grown partial to.

“It’s lonely, you know, to live as long as I have.”

It’s late winter again. Nitya is cold, so she insisted on draping both of them with a shawl while they stare out at the garden, admiring how the moon paints every surface it can reach silver.

“I can only imagine.” Nitya keeps her voice low. She’s always quiet at night, not wanting to disturb the flowers. She would always say they’ve felt alive in a way that went beyond simple grasses, ferns, and shrubs. She claimed they breathed the way that she does, moved the way that she does. And at first, she paid it no mind. But then, her gaze would linger on the fluttering petals even when Pallavi insisted it was just a breeze passing by.

“What if you didn’t have to imagine?” An offer to her Nitya, who has always been so kind. What if I didn’t have to be alone?

“What do you mean?”

“What if you stayed here with me?” Pallavi smiles, century-seasoned to keep her voice even. “Just you and me, in our garden.”

“Stay with you…Forever?”

Pallavi cups Nitya’s cheek delicately, though every muscle fights to clutch her lover’s face instead, to hold onto this moment in time. Because each inhale is another second less that they have together.

She brushes her thumb next to the corner of Nitya’s eye where fine lines are starting to appear too. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “You wouldn’t age. You wouldn’t grow ill. You wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing. You could stay with me, just like this.”

“Just like this…?” Nitya tilts her head to the side, her words even slower than her movements, like they’ve been caught in sap.

Pallavi’s smile grows. She doesn’t have a heart anymore. Maybe she never had one to begin with, a hollow creature from the moment she opened her eyes and found a bright blue sky, everpresent yet just out of reach. If she did have a heart, would the even rhythm quicken? Would it skip a beat?

Nitya leans into her touch, her cheek softer than a poppy petal.

Yes—just like this, free from constraints of time and the world around them.

After all, only Pallavi could see her lovers when the rest of society cast them away. Only she treasured their beauty where everyone else found faults. Only she could provide peace in chaos, freedom in subjugation, happiness in a sorrow-filled world. Only she could grant eternity.

Wouldn’t Nitya love that? Why spend hours, days, years of her life here if she didn’t want to stay? Together in this garden. There’s no greater gift Pallavi could grant.

“Darling, close your eyes for me, won’t you?”

Pallavi doesn’t like her lovers seeing her like this, after all.

It’s rather unsightly: the way her jaw unhinges with a wet pop and a second, then third row of jagged teeth burst through her gums. Her dark eyes fade to pale, the warmth they once held hardening into something cold, sharper than the spikes of thistles and barberries.

Some of her lovers cry; perhaps the potential of longevity becoming a reality surprises them.

Some of her lovers scream; perhaps in shock that a beauty such as Pallavi could conceal a side like this.

Some of them lose control of their bodily senses, fluids leaking from between trembling legs.

Some of them think they’ll change their minds, and think it better to run. But Pallavi does not take the curation of her garden lightly. They rarely get far.

She tastes Nitya’s rose lips first.

It takes exactly seven days for a seed to form in the pit of Pallavi’s stomach.

She knows when she lurches out of bed, overcome with the urge to vomit. Sweat beads at her temples, and there’s a tiredness deep in her bones that weighs her down, begging her to stay in place—but she mustn’t. Over seven days, her stomach has swollen to three times its normal size, her skin stretching to accommodate. Another wave of nausea crashes into her. She’s ready now.

Even with staggered steps and ragged breaths, she carries herself up the flight of stairs with as much poise as she can muster. It’s unusually cold for a spring morning; winter doesn’t want to leave just yet. Crisp air seeps into the house through the cracks in the windows and gaps in the doors, but Pallavi doesn’t feel it.

The nursery is barren for the most part. It’s the most important and the least used room in this little house at the edge of the garden. Hand-crafted flower pots line the walls, no two like the other. Most were sculpted by Pallavi’s practiced hands, but a few were molded by Nitya, uneven and charming.

Pallavi settles on the hard floor in the center of the room. She’s used to it. She’s done this time and time again for hundreds of years. But it’s her least favorite part.

She lets her jaw fall open until her chin bumps against her swollen belly, copper hitting her tongue as rows of teeth emerge in her mouth. Alone in her home, she lifts a willowy hand and reaches into her mouth—past her teeth, knuckles rubbing against her palate. She doesn’t gag anymore when her hand plunges down her throat. Her esophagus pulses around her wrist, but it doesn’t resist the intrusion.

The inside of her stomach is hot, juices sloshing as she gropes around, searching, searching, searching, until—there. A seed, tiny and smooth between her fingers.

Tears spring to her eyes. All of Nitya’s love, her youth, preserved in this little seed, left behind for Pallavi to nurture until the end of time.

She retches and yanks her arm out, falling back onto the floor with the force of it. Goosebumps rise to her skin where cool air meets the mess of liquids on her arm.

“Oh, pretty darling.” Pallavi cradles the seed in her palm and brings it close to her chest. “I wonder what you’ll be.”

R. S. Thakur (they/them) is a queer South Asian-American writer based in New Jersey.

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