The Vowkeeper's Garden

By dusk the city loosened its breath. Merchants shuttered stalls, the ferry bells slowed their impatient clanging, and the alleys filled with the soft clack of footsteps returning home. In the fold of the old quarter, where stone leaned close and the air tasted of rosemary and river, the Vowkeeper’s Garden kept its quiet. It was not a place of hedges and trimmed lawns as outsiders might imagine; it was a library of living things, a small, stubborn wilderness arranged in beds and alcoves and beneath a low, glassless dome. Each vessel was a plant whose bloom held a thing said and then abandoned—promises, wishes, apologies that had not reached their ends. People brought seeds of regret and knots of intention to the gardeners, and those who tended the beds ground them into soil, coaxing them into forms that could sleep without leaking harm into the streets.

Liora moved through the beds with the careful hands of someone who had been taught reverence as a craft. Her palms smelled of loam and citrus; the sleeves of her workwear were spotted with the faint bruises of plant sap and the tiny scars of thorns that refused to be polite. She had learned the names of each vessel by the way its leaves answered the dusk. Some held the quick little vows people made in passing—the pledge to visit a distant friend, the thin promise to come home in time for supper. Those bloomed like pale bells and wanted only occasional watering and a soft word. Others were deeper-rooted things, heavy with years of disuse: a mother’s apology folded into paper and kept in a jar with a seed; a lover’s promise to return that had dried into a husk. These larger plants needed wintering and an old recipe of moonwater and cinnamon to keep from rotting into the wind.

The Garden had its rituals, private as prayer. At evening Liora walked every row, kneeling to test the soil of each container, pinching spent petals, humoring a stubborn vine back to sleep. She hummed a tune whose origins she could not name, a tiny melody learned at her mother’s elbow while hands taught hands how to save a city from its own amnesia. Her life was measured in the softened sounds of things closing up: a stem tied, a faded note folded and tucked into the dirt, a vessel sealed with wax and a whisper. The work kept her balanced and blistered her fingers, and she liked that steadiness. It was better than the aching quiet that sometimes settled at the base of her throat when she thought of the favors she had kept for herself—little promises to be kind, to write a letter, to learn a new trade—that remained tucked away because tending the city’s promises felt like greater use.

The night-bearer moved along the garden’s outer path like a shadow stitched to the wall. Eren’s presence was the kind that made plants lean toward him even when they had nothing to gain. He wore the duty of his office like a second skin: pale, efficient, and deliberately blank. Where he walked, other things hushed as if afraid to add to the pile he carried. Eren carried unkept words the law required him to hold: the city’s unresolved pledges and broken vows were funneled into his keeping each night so they could be contained and not conjure themselves into dangerous reality. The ritual left him hollowed in precise measures; he resembled a man who had practiced unpresence until it became muscle. Liora had seen him before—saw him open his palms, accept a small glowing petal at the gate and fold it into a pocket of air beneath his ribs with a motion that was practiced and final. She had never spoken to him. People said that was part of the point: intimacy with the burden might crack the sealed places.

On that evening the Garden smelled of crushed mint and warmed stone. The sky was a thin sheet of bruised blue, and a wind that remembered the river touched the leaves. Liora moved from bed to bed with her tools tucked into her belt, her knife for precise cuts, her fingers for gentler coaxing. When she reached the oldest alcove, a crescent of pots whose clay had been fired a century ago, she found a vessel that worried her. It was a jar like the rest, its rim etched with a name no one spoke aloud, its bloom dim and mottled. The plant inside showed the first signs of blackening at its heart, a rot that spread like a slow bruise. Liora knew the remedies well: scrape the dead away, draw pure water with a copper coil, mend the roots with braid and song. She washed her hands and knelt.

The instrument she used was simple, almost humble—a narrow grafting knife, its edge honed to a fine patience. She worked in light that shortened every shape, slicing gently to remove the damaged tissue. The rot did not yield. The knife slipped on a wet patch, and with a small gasp Liora felt something she had never felt in all her careful nights: a loosened promise slipped from its chamber and rose like a smoke insect. It was no bigger than a moth, a petal shaped from faint glass and colored like a remembered laugh. It floated up, trembling between her fingers and the air, and for half a breath it dangled there, uncertain of where it belonged.