Bloom Below: A Whisperwood Novel

Whispers of Green

The salt spray tasted of loss. Wren pulled her wool shawl tighter, the damp clinging to her skin. Oakhaven wasn’t a town for sunshine. It was a place of gray skies, gray water, and people who carried their worries like stones. She mostly preferred it that way. The gray matched how she felt inside.

Old Man Hemlock’s fish stall smelled of brine and something heavy. Wren avoided looking at him. He always stared, his eyes studying her, as if trying to figure out what was wrong. Everyone in Oakhaven did. They didn't say it, not usually. But she felt their glances, questioning, whenever she walked by the bakery or Mrs. Gable’s garden.

Today, the heaviness around Hemlock felt stronger. A pot of geraniums, usually bright red, had lost all its color. The leaves drooped, almost black. Wren reached out, her fingers hovering over a withered bloom. A wave of sorrow washed over her, a deep ache that wasn’t her own. It was Hemlock’s. A grief so thick, it felt like drowning.

She snatched her hand back, stumbling. It happened sometimes. When people felt strongly, when their emotions overflowed, the plants around them…responded. And she, somehow, felt it all. It was a strange, unwanted gift. A curse, really.

“Clumsy today, Wren?” Hemlock’s voice was raspy, like pebbles grinding together. He didn’t offer a hand, just watched her with those unsettling eyes.

Wren mumbled an apology, keeping her gaze on the cobblestones. She hurried past, the weight of Hemlock’s sadness clinging to her. She wished she could block it out, build a wall around herself. But the emotions seeped in, through her skin, into her bones.

Her grandmother’s cottage stood at the edge of town, overlooking the sea. It was small, built of weathered wood, and covered with ivy. Inside, it smelled of lavender and dust. A comforting smell. A safe smell.

Grandmother Elara had understood. She’d been…different, too. Though she hadn’t explained how. Just that Wren’s gift was something to protect. Something to keep hidden.

“Don’t let them see, child,” Elara had said, her voice frail but firm, before she’d passed away two years ago. “They won’t understand. They’ll fear what they don’t know.”

Wren spent most of her days tending the small garden behind the cottage. It was her sanctuary. A riot of color and life, where she could experiment with her ability, coaxing blossoms back to health, soothing the vines.

Today, even the garden felt muted. The joy she usually found in nurturing the plants was overshadowed by the sadness from Oakhaven. She knelt beside a rose bush, its buds tight and green. She touched a bud gently, trying to send a spark of encouragement.

Instead, the bud shuddered. And Wren felt a jolt of sharp anger. Not hers. It was coming from somewhere nearby.

She glanced up, scanning the hedge. Old Man Fitzwilliam, the baker, was stomping through his garden, muttering angrily at his tomato plants. His face was red, his hands clenched.

The tomato plants were practically trembling.

Wren quickly withdrew her hand from the rose bush. It wasn't always sadness. Sometimes it was anger, fear, even resentment. And it always found its way to the plants. She closed her eyes, trying to shield herself, but the emotions swirled around her, a chaotic mess.

“It’s getting worse,” she whispered.

The library was her escape. A quiet, dusty place filled with the scent of old paper. Mrs. Hawthorne, the librarian, was kind. She didn’t ask questions. She just let Wren be.

Wren spent hours among the shelves, losing herself in books about faraway lands, about magic and adventure. It was a way to pretend, to imagine a life where she wasn't an outsider.

Today, she searched for information about plants. Not gardening books. Something…deeper. Something that might explain her ability. She’d started with folklore, with old tales about flower magic. But it ...