Read Bloom Below free: the opening chapter

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 never felt quite right. It was like looking at a distorted reflection.

She ran her finger along the spines, her eyes scanning the titles. The Language of Flowers. Gardening for Beginners. Coastal Herbs and Their Uses. Nothing.

“Looking for something specific, dear?” Mrs. Hawthorne asked, her voice soft.

Wren jumped, startled. She hadn’t realized anyone was nearby. “Just…researching plants,” she said, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Hawthorne smiled knowingly. “A fascinating subject. Plants have a way of speaking to us, don’t they? If we only listen.”

Wren hesitated. Should she tell Mrs. Hawthorne? She’d always been kind. But what if she didn’t believe her? What if she thought she was crazy?

“I…I think I can feel what plants are feeling,” she finally said, the words tumbling out. “Their…emotions.”

Mrs. Hawthorne didn’t laugh. She didn’t look surprised. She simply nodded, her eyes thoughtful.

“That’s…quite a gift, Wren,” she said quietly. “A rare one. My grandmother used to say some people are born with a special connection to the natural world. That they can sense the life force within all things.”

Wren’s heart fluttered. Someone understood. Or at least, they were trying to.

“Do you…do you know anything about it?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

Mrs. Hawthorne’s smile faded. She glanced around the library, as if checking to make sure no one was listening.

“There are old stories,” she said, lowering her voice. “Whispers of a place…a hidden sanctuary, deep within the Whisperwood. A place where others like you gather. A place called the Verdant Hollow.”

Wren’s breath caught. The Whisperwood. Everyone in Oakhaven avoided it. They said it was haunted, cursed. A place where people went in and never came out.

“The Verdant Hollow?” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

“It’s just a legend, of course,” Mrs. Hawthorne said quickly. “An old tale. But…” She paused, her gaze meeting Wren’s. “I’ve heard that the plants there…they bloom with an extraordinary light. And that the air is filled with a peace you won’t find anywhere else.”

---

Later that evening, Wren stood at her bedroom window, staring at the dark shape of the Whisperwood. Mist clung to the trees, obscuring their branches.

She felt a pull, a strange longing. A feeling that she was being called.

The weight of her loneliness pressed down on her. She was tired of being different. Tired of hiding. Tired of feeling like an outsider.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for her. A place where she could be herself, without fear. A place where her gift wouldn’t be seen as a curse, but as something…beautiful.

She knew it was foolish. The Verdant Hollow was just a story. A legend. But the hope, however fragile, was enough to keep her rooted to the spot.

Suddenly, a single rose, the one she’d tried to encourage earlier, bloomed in the garden below. Not a vibrant red, but a pale, luminous silver.

And Wren felt a surge of energy, a wave of pure joy, wash over her. It wasn't hers. It was coming from the rose.

But mixed with the joy, there was something else. A faint tremor of…fear.

The silver bloom trembled on its stem, then slowly, deliberately, pointed towards the Whisperwood.

Wren gasped, stumbling back from the window. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The rose hadn’t simply bloomed; it had responded. To something within the wood. To the same pull she felt. It was as if the flower, connected to her, was warning her. Or guiding her.

She stared at the luminous rose, her mind racing. Had Mrs. Hawthorne known? Had she planted the seed of the Verdant Hollow in Wren’s mind, knowing this would happen? Or was it simply fate, leading her towards danger?

Oakhaven was a town steeped in shadows. Nestled in a valley perpetually shrouded in mist, it felt ancient and withdrawn. The buildings were constructed of dark grey stone, their roofs sloped to shed the endless rain. Even on sunny days, the light seemed to struggle to penetrate the thick trees. It was a place where secrets thrived.

Wren had lived there her entire life, and she’d never truly felt like she belonged. Her mother had been an outsider, a traveler who’d drifted into Oakhaven seeking…something. No one spoke of her father. She’d died when Wren was young, leaving her with Aunt Clara, a stern, practical woman who tolerated Wren’s quirks but never understood them.

Aunt Clara ran the bakery, a cozy shop filled with the scent of yeast and sugar. It was the heart of Oakhaven’s social life. But Wren felt like a ghost within its walls, delivering pastries, and avoiding eye contact.

They weren’t unkind, not exactly. But they were…wary. They’d seen her talking to plants, coaxing flowers back to life. They’d heard the rumors of her strange ability, the way she could make things grow with a touch. They called her “the flower girl,” a nickname that felt more like a label.

The children were the worst. They’d follow her through the market, pointing and giggling. “Look, it’s the weird one!” they’d shout. “She talks to the weeds!”

Wren had learned to ignore them, to build a wall around herself. She spent most of her time in the library, losing herself in books about faraway lands and forgotten magic. It was the only place where she felt safe.

But even there, she wasn’t entirely alone. Old Man Hemlock, the groundskeeper, was different. He was quiet, solitary, always tending to the library’s overgrown garden. He didn’t mind Wren’s habits. He sometimes encouraged them. He’d leave her rare seeds and cuttings, telling her to “nurture the gifts the earth provides.”

He’d been the first to notice her ability, years ago. He’d seen her coax a withered rosebush back to life with a touch.

“You have a rare talent, little one,” he’d said. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

But even Hemlock couldn’t shield her from the town’s disapproval.

Now, standing at her window, Wren felt the familiar weight of loneliness. The silver rose, still pointing towards the Whisperwood, felt like a beacon, a promise. But it also felt like a warning.

She glanced at the clock. It was late. Aunt Clara would be expecting her to help with the morning baking. She should go to bed, forget about the Verdant Hollow, and try to be normal.

But she couldn’t. The pull was too strong. The rose’s silent message too insistent.

She slipped out of her bedroom, careful not to wake Aunt Clara. The house was dark and silent, filled with the scent of baking bread. She grabbed her cloak and a small satchel, stuffing it with a knife, a water bottle, and a worn copy of “Common Herbs and Their Uses.”

As she reached the front door, she hesitated. What if the Verdant Hollow was just a myth? What if the Whisperwood was cursed? What if she got lost?

But then she remembered the silver rose, trembling with fear and…hope.

She took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out into the cool, misty night.

The Whisperwood loomed before her, a dark presence. The trees were taller than any she’d ever seen, their branches intertwined. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.

She walked towards the wood, her heart pounding. The ground was soft and spongy beneath her feet, covered in moss and fallen leaves. The only sound was the rustling of the wind and the distant hooting of an owl.

As she ventured deeper, the atmosphere changed. The air grew colder, and the silence became profound. It felt as if she was being watched.

She noticed that the plants around her were…different. They were larger, more vibrant, and strangely luminous. Their leaves glowed with an ethereal light, casting eerie shadows. It was as if the Whisperwood was alive, pulsating with energy.

She touched a broad, fern-like leaf, and a surge of energy coursed through her body. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and familiar. She felt a connection to the plant, a sense of understanding.

But the joy was overshadowed by a growing unease. The forest was beautiful, yes, but also…wrong. The trees seemed to lean in towards her, their branches reaching out. The luminous plants seemed to watch her, their leaves following her movements.

And then she heard it. A whisper, carried on the wind. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but she could have sworn it was calling her name.

“Wren…Wren…”

She stopped, her breath catching. She looked around, but there was no one there. Just the trees, the glowing plants, and the silence.

She told herself it was her imagination, a trick of the wind. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being drawn deeper, towards something unknown.

As she continued, she came across a clearing. In the center stood an ancient oak tree, its trunk wider than any she’d ever seen. Its branches reached towards the sky, covered in moss and lichen.

Around the base of the tree, a circle of silver flowers bloomed, their petals shimmering in the moonlight. They were identical to the one in her garden, but even more radiant.

Wren approached the tree, her heart pounding. She reached out and touched its rough bark, and a wave of energy surged through her, more powerful than anything she’d ever experienced.

She closed her eyes, and visions flooded her mind. Images of a hidden valley, bathed in sunlight. People with glowing eyes, tending to gardens of extraordinary beauty. A sense of peace, of belonging, of…home.

But the visions were fleeting, fragmented, and tinged with sadness. She saw shadows lurking, and heard whispers of a coming darkness.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone. The silver flowers around the oak tree were beginning to wilt, their petals losing their luminescence.

And then she saw it. Carved into the trunk of the tree, barely visible beneath the moss, was a symbol. A circle, bisected by a vertical line, with a single, delicate flower blooming at the bottom.

It was the symbol from the old book Mrs. Hawthorne had shown her, the one depicting the Verdant Hollow.

She was close. She was so close.

But as she reached out to touch the symbol, a voice shattered the silence.

“Turn back, child. You do not belong here.”

The sample ends here.