gretchen greets her when she emerges. the outdoor area of the greenhouse has a low overhang, but the awning that usually covers the plants has been pulled back, tucked away for the oncoming winter. a cluster of gloom huddle together for warmth, dozing in the early morning dawn. 

the glameow twines around willow's boots, rubs her spine along her jeans, and willow crouches to give her some proper scratches behind her ears. the iron head of the shovel is wedged in the ground, held with one steady hand near its hilt. 

if gretchen's hearing weren't almost gone, she'd have warned willow of the man's presence. but instead of spitting and catterwauling, she purrs heavily. willow chuckles. she sounds like an engine on its last legs. 

and then she hears a voice, his voice, except it's gruffer, deeper than the one she remembers. her fingers slip. the shovel clatters to the ground as she drops that hand to the ground to steady herself. she pauses, takes a moment to breathe in, to exhale, and then she stands. 

she turns. and whatever he's expecting isn't there. hatred and love are so close together and without one, there is no other. her eyes are soft, and they are sad, and her heart gives a painful squeeze. 

gretchen sniffs a couple of times, pads forward, and then makes a low hissing noise before scuttling off. willow watches her go and then looks down, anywhere but at him, to pick up the shovel. 

she checks her watch. "he won't be home for a few hours, bo." now, with roman at the forefront of her mind, her gaze hardens. she shoulders the shovel. "you can stay and say your piece, but i want you gone before he's back."

you will not tear down this garden i have built. you will not raze this earth and leave again. 

boruta maher

☉

cool water runs down her hands. she is at a standstill, watching the soap gather at the drain, looking at pockmarked fingers, warped from her work, from years of being atlas herself. she shrugs her shoulders and reaches up to turn the water off. her gaze is low, avoiding the woman in the mirror in front of her. 

but before she turns, she raises her eyes, and she forces herself to smile. and she feels better, for a little bit. long enough to wear that smile as she flips open the cardboard sign in front of her shop. 

elisabet, her leavanny, has already begun setting some of the arrangements willow spent the better part of the morning putting together. she wakes at five, several hours before roman is up and running around, when the sun is still hidden and her life is her own. 

but now that adelaide has arrived to take care of errands with roman, and to tend to her mother, she's free to work in the greenhouse. 

elisabet isn't much good with money, but that's never really mattered. willow grabs the change jar from behind the counter and sets it, takes and squeezes her leavanny's hand gratefully, and then grabs her mud boots from behind the counter as well. 

it's a cramped space. the shop is the lower level of her and her family's living quarters. but it feels larger now, achingly so, now that her father's gone. she scatters the thoughts as she shucks on her boots, grabs her flannel and shrugs it on. 

she goes out the side door, leaving elisabet to tend to the arrangements, to greet newcomers and floral perusers. elisabet has become quite accustomed to being the face of the atkins' odd little lifestyle. though more often than not, friendly faces know to peek around the back and go into the greenhouse themselves to catch a chat with the green-thumbed woman herself.

a stepping stone pathway leads to the greenhouse. outdoor flower beds are empty, barren with the cold weather approaching. she'd moved the roselia inside where it's heated. 

and that heat greets her now as she steps through the door. sunlight filters in through the glass ceiling. she dons gloves, shrugs out of her flannel and ties it around her waist, and sets to tending her patients. 

it's rhythmic, what she does. gideon and thistle follow her about, dragging mulch and handing her clippers when she needs them. the only time they keep their distance is when she's tending to mold-ridden or mite-infested residents.

"your foot's looking better," she murmurs as she applies a salve to a petilil. she's by herself in a corner of the greenhouse, planted in recovery soil. gideon's been keeping her company, but the creature's a sociable one, and her leaves have drooped ever since willow's had to isolate her. "you'll be able to join the others soon." 

she clips sunscorched marks from a chikorita's leaf, coaxes open some of the bulbs from a pair of bulbasaur, applies homemade remedies and tills soil and plants and breathes and hums life back into these creatures. and when she's finished, with her hair tied messily, half of it falling out of her hastily put-up bun, and dirt on her cheeks, she grabs her shovel to move the last of the gloom from their outdoor plots.

boruta maher

☉