The Greenhouse
The Greenhouse by The Tin Man The garden was vast, walled in by stone so high it seemed to hold back the sky. Ivy clung to those walls, thick and tangled like my mind. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, sweet flowers, and something I couldn't name. Bees and butterflies moved from bloom to bloom, absorbed in their own busy roles. I walked with the old lady. Her lined face and white hair bore witness to years of tending to this oasis. She spoke softly, her blue-grey eyes sparkled as she talked, pointing out her successes and other places where work still needed doing. The greens were lush, and some overgrown, brushing against my legs—knee-high ferns, hip-high grasses, leaves that shimmered with dew or shook dismissively in a gentle breeze. This, I thought, is peace. I glanced down at myself and was struck, but not upset or shocked, by the strangeness. The clothes weren’t mine. I was not in my body. The shirt hung differently, the shoes pinched. I was wearing someone el...