Rosewater Remedy 🌹

Somewhere in the seclusion of the countryside, a cottage dipped down into the embrace of the earth. Vines spread alongside the wall's mossy brick in the form of mother nature's takeover. Trees tranquil as they feel the warmth of the sun's rays creeping into the cracks of their ridged bark. This clearing of still wilderness preserved and flourished.

Within the realm of daybreak, Ophelia crept on the outskirts of the cottage. Her small footsteps were soundless on the cushion of dew grass as she traveled into the vast forest. Down a path laid out for her on stone steps, the petite girl leaped from one to another in a practiced precision. Through riverbanks and low branches, she ventured on a trail she had paved into her mind.

However, the journey seemed to go on for too long, and she thought to turn back, retrace her steps, but just as her hope dwindled, there it was. In the distance, a hedge wall with a single wooden door in the center. Pure curiosity spilled from her parted mouth at the arched gate she had laid restless to, wondering its existence. The first time she had discovered the curious wonder, she had only viewed it from afar. Now up close, her prying fascination led her to swing the door open to reveal a garden.

Ophelia marveled at the beds of budding flowers and the ripe fruits. Her sense of wonderment guided her farther from the gate with the youthful urge to know, seeking for something bigger than herself. It was an entire slice of the country she had never known. But she wanted to be acquainted.

The little girl's strawberry curls bounced from under her sun hat. Her toes curled over roots in the soil as the questions built up in her head. Where did they lead? She wondered. Perhaps they were like roads for her to follow, and she would reach out her hands to leave smears or fingerprints on the map. But the roots would outline her path; they would never leave her.

In the garden, she smelled the roses and picked a few berries while she made sure to look at everything. The air was fresh here as if Mother Earth herself nurtured her. Ophelia felt ready to lay down, sink into the grass, let the dirt swallow her up in its depths so that she could prosper into one of the flowers, becoming a part of the garden. She fell in love with that longing. The heels of her feet rolled in the soil when she leaned against the bark of a tree. Her eyes fluttered closed, waiting for acceptance, but it never came.

Further, into the garden, she went. The rosiness of her cheeks blended her among the clusters of herbs, and she spun around. Although, her spirit withered a little as she saw that time hadn't been as kind to some buds, their deprived faces dipping to their dry soil in shame. It disheartened the little girl, perhaps her tears would restore their health, but she could not produce any. She whispered them sweet nothings, hopeful it would give them the strength to bloom once more.

Ophelia wrung her hands together, gazing at more groups of baby buds, waiting for them to open. She cooed and caressed them, easing them to open, but her patience wavered. Her respect for the garden staggered as her curiosity got the better of her. So in some spell of naivety, her plump hands seized at each flower. She wanted to feel the lush spring in the palm of her hand. But her touch tore them apart, and from her touch, the petals broke away to the ground to rest.

"Lia!" A voice ripped Ophelia's attention to the gate swinging open. Her privacy with the garden faded as her grandmother bounded towards her, taking the disheveled flowers from her hands. The older woman sighed, "You must be kind to them, dear."

She spoke in a solemn tone, pomegranate juice spilling from her lips in a divine wine of wisdom. Her hands demonstrated how to care for the plants. The wrinkles in her hands showed a story like the inner bark of a tree. In that age and wear, she put everything into her delicate touch. They whispered to the little girl, be gentle.

The words settled in Ophelia, and her curiosity rustled in the wind of the leaves as they began to walk back to the cottage. Her wanderlust still rolled over the shadowed hills. But maybe her search had come to its conclusion. With this thought, the day fell into the night.

And in the luxury of the moonlight, the little girl nestled into a cushioned armchair that encased her form. Her hands folded in her lap. Fingers tap, tap, tapping. She looked around for something to entertain when her eyes landed on a peculiar book.

The title was in a style of handwriting she could not read, but she knew from its curving of letters its origin belonged to her grandmother. There were plenty of pages, and she knew she wouldn't be able to finish it in one sitting alone. The book looked personal, not to tamper. Ophelia's interest grew in her ribcage with poisoned vines. Its tingle warped inside her, and the feeling she had in the garden returned.

Her grandmother watched from the doorway as the girl traced each penned word, incomprehensible to her eyes yet still intriguing. Her heart lamented that distant feeling. She walked the rest of the way to the girl and fell into the chair opposite her. Every evening should end with a bedtime story.

Ophelia listened as the older woman read out loud, hung on the thin string of her words, hearing her in that inked text. The bloom of the living thrived on the cream leaves. Even though she only read the first few pages, and the little girl expected to feel dissatisfied, instead, she fell silent. Finally, she was satisfied with her share. She saw peace and wished they could stay there till winter and then some.

Her grandmother saw herself in the girl like a mirror reflecting itself. She wished for those times back, clutching onto the book with all the memories of her life. Her sterling streaks of hair marked every adventure she once had. Her eyes have seen all the world had to offer, so now her voice sounded like she was reciting a poem with words that watered flowers. But she is content with all she had learned, grinning as Ophelia braided her gray hair with wildflowers. Content as they lived in the present among each other's company. Among the early days of the countryside's spring season, they cherished the growth, patient with its process.