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Caloroga Shark Media.
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Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This is Wildflower, Episode one,
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First Bloom.
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There's a violet growing out of my bathroom tile. I
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noticed it this morning, brushing my teeth, still half asleep.
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A tiny purple flower pushing up through the grout between
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the white hexagons, right next to the base of the toilet.
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Perfect petals, delicate stem. Absolutely impossible. I live on the
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fourteenth floor. There's no soil in my barthroom, no seeds,
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no sunlight worth mentioning. The tile was professionally installed three
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years ago, sealed and grouted and guaranteed for a decade,
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and yet a violet. I got down on my hands
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and knees, still in my pajamas, and examined it like
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a crime scene. The grout wasn't cracked. The flower had
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somehow grown through it the way tree roots eventually break
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through sidewalks. But this wasn't years of slow pressure. This
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was overnight yesterday. There was nothing today, a perfect violet.
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I should have called building maintenance. I should have documented
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it for the insurance company in case it indicated some
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kind of structural issue. I should have done any number
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of practical, sensible things Instead, I pulled it out, threw
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it in the trash and got ready for work. That
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was my first mistake. My name is Elise Thorn and
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Events for a Living, Weddings Galas, Corporate Retreats, product launches
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anything that requires logistics, timelines, and the careful orchestration of
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human beings who would otherwise create chaos. I'm good at it,
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very good. My calendar is color coded, my vendor relationships
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are impeccable, and I have backup plans for my backup plans.
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Control is my love language. Order is my art form.
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This is not a personality quirk. This is a survival
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strategy refined over thirty three years, and it has served
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me well. I have a corner office, a six figure salary,
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and an apartment so minimalist that visitors sometimes ask if
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I've just moved in. I haven't. I've lived there for
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four years. I just don't believe in clutter. The point is,
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I am not the kind of person who finds mysterious
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flowers growing in her bathroom. I am not the kind
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of person to whom unexplainable things happen. I have specifically
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designed my life to exclude unexplainable things. Because unexplainable things
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cannot be managed, and things that cannot be managed create anxiety,
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and anxiety creates mistakes, and mistakes create consequences that spiral
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beyond your control. So when I got to work that
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morning and found a cluster of wild flowers growing out
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of my desk drawer, I did not scream. I did
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not call for help. I calmly closed the drawer, walked
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to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and gave
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myself a firm talking to in the mirror. You are
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not losing your mind, I told my reflection. There is
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a rational explanation. You are tired, you are stressed. The
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Whitmore Gala is in three weeks, and you haven't slept
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properly in days. Your brain is playing tricks on you.
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My reflection looked unconvinced. I went back to my desk,
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opened the drawer. The wildflowers were still there, purple and
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yellow and white, a little meadow growing out of my
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spare stapler and my collection of binder clips. They swayed
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slightly when I opened the drawer, as if stirred by
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a breeze that didn't exist. I closed the drawer. I
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left it closed for the rest of the day. The
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Whitmore Gala is the biggest event of my year. Miranda Whitmore,
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heiress to a pharmaceutical fortune, has decided to throw a
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spring celebration for three hundred of her closest friends. Theme
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a garden awakening budget, effectively unlimited venue. The Hartfield Estate
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one hundred acre property with formal gardens, a restored greenhouse,
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and enough old money atmosphere to make even jaded socialites
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feel impressed. I've been planning this event for six months.
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Every detail is accounted for, the caterer, the florist, the
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string quartet, the lighting designer, the valet service, the backup
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generator in case of power failure. I have spreadsheets nested
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inside spreadsheets. I have contingency plans for weather, for vendor,
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no shows, for celebrity, guest drama, for every conceivable crisis.
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What I don't have is an explanation for the flowers
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they keep appearing. That's the thing. It's not just the
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violet in the bathroom, not just the wildflowers in my desk,
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It's everywhere now, morning glories climbing my desk, lamp daisies
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pushing through the carpet of my car, A spray of
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Forget Me nots blooming from my purse when I open
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it to find my keys. No one else sees them.
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That's the part that frightens me most. I watched my
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assistant open the same desk drawer where I saw wildflowers,
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and she just run image through, normally pulling out a stapler,
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complaining about the lack of paper clips. The flowers were
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right there, swaying inches from her hand, and she looks
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straight through them. I'm either losing my mind or something
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is happening that I cannot explain. Neither option is acceptable.
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The landscaper arrives at Hartfield Estate on Thursday afternoon. I'm
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there to meet him because I'm there for everything. The
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estate's permanent gardening staff will maintain the grounds, but Miranda
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wanted someone special to design a living installation for the gala.
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Something modern, artistic, the kind of thing that photographs well
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and generates social mediaz. His name is Roman Castellanos. He
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runs a small company that does high end landscape design,
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the kind that gets featured in architecture magazines. His portfolio
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is impressive rooftop gardens in Manhattan rewildered estates in Connecticut,
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a meditation garden for a Buddhist retreat center that architectural
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digest called Transcendent. He pulls up in a truck that's
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seen better days, which surprises me. Everyone else in this
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industry arrives in vehicles that cost more than most people's houses.
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But his truck is muddy, practical, clearly used for actual work.
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There's soil in the bed and a collection of hand
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tools visible through the back window. He gets out, and
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I revise my mental image again. I was expecting someone polished,
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someone who'd matched the glossy portfolio. Instead, he's wearing work
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boots and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
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His hands are rough, calloused, the hands of someone who
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actually puts them in the dirt. Dark hair going gray
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at the temples, a face that looks like it's been
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through something, and come out the other side, Miss Thorn.
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He walks toward me, not rushing, taking in the grounds
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as he moves. I'm Roman. We spoke on the phone, Elise.
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I shake his hand. His grip is firm, but not aggressive,
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the kind that suggests confidence without needing to prove anything.
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Thank you for coming on short notice. Missus Whitmore was
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very specific about wanting your work. She mentioned the theme
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garden Awakening. He looks past me at the formal gardens,
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the trimmed hedges, the controlled perfection of the Hartfield Grounds.
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Interesting choice for a place this manicured. Is that a
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problem not a problem? Observation? He turns back to me,
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and there's something in his expression I can't read. Awakening
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implies something that's been asleep, something ready to grow beyond
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its boundaries. That's hard to fake in a space this controlled.
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I feel a strange prickle at the back of my neck.
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The way he says controlled, it sounds less like a
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description of the gardens and more like something aimed at me.
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I'm sure you'll figure it out, I say, my professional
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mask firmly in place. Let me show you the areas
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we've designated for the installation. We walk the grounds together.
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I explain the vision, interactive garden elements, pathways that reveal themselves,
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flowers that seem to grow in real time using clever
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lighting and mechanical elements. He listens, nods, asks occasional questions.
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His attention seems divided, though he keeps glancing at me
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when he thinks I'm not looking a slight furrow between
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his brows. Is something wrong? I finally ask, no, sorry,
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He shakes his head. You just remind me of someone,
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someone you've worked with before, someone I knew a long
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time ago. He doesn't elaborate. We're in the greenhouse now,
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the space where the main installation will go. It's climate controlled,
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filled with tropical plants that shouldn't survive this far north,
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maintained year round by a staff of three. The air
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is warm and humid, heavy with the smell of green
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growing things. I'm explaining the placement of the lighting rigs
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when I see it, a flower growing from my shadow,
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not metaphorically, literally, a small white blossom pushing up from
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the greenhouse floor at the exact spot where my shadow falls.
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It wasn't there a moment ago. I saw the clean tile.
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I'm sure of it. But now there's a flower and
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it's growing, visibly growing, the stem lengthening as I watch.
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I step back. The flower stays where it was, but
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another one sprouts where my shadow falls now, and another
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a trail of white blossoms marking my retreat.
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Are you okay?
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Roman's voice cuts through my panic. I look up and
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find him staring at me with an expression I can't name,
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not confusion, not concern, exactly recognition. You can see them,
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I whisper. He doesn't ask what I mean. He just
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looks at the flowers growing in my shadow, the impossible
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white trail spreading across the greenhouse floor, and he nods. Yeah,
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He says, quietly, I can see them. We sit on
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a bench outside the greenhouse, far enough from the main
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house that no one will overhear. My hands are shaking.
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I've clasped them together in my lap to hide it,
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but I think he notices anyway. How long has this
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been happening, he asks? A few days, maybe a week.
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I try to think back, but the days blur together
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when you're planning an event this size. The first one
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I noticed was a violet in my bathroom. Then they
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started appearing everywhere, my car, my office, my purse. I
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thought I was hallucinating. I thought I was losing my mind.
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You're not, then, what's happening to me? He's quiet for
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a moment. His hands are resting on his knees, and
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I notice them again, the roughness, the dirt permanently embedded
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in the creases, hands that work with growing things. What
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do you know about wild magic, he asks, I don't
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know anything about any kind of magic. Magic isn't real.
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A week ago you would have said flowers don't grow
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from shadows. He's not mocking, just stating fact. Things are real,
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whether we believe in them or not. I don't have
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an argument for that. Wild magic is hard to explain,
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he continues. It's not like what you see in movies.
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There's no spells, no wands, no controlling it. It's more
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like a force, the thing that makes life insist on itself,
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the way flowers push through concrete, the way forests regrow
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after fires, life refusing to be contained. And you think
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that's what's happening to me, some kind of force. I
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think it's always been in you. He turns to look
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at me, and his eyes are dark serious. Some people
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carry it, most of them never know. It stays dormant,
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never gets triggered. But sometimes something wakes it up, and
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when it does, it wants to grow. The flowers are
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just how it's expressing itself. That's insane, probably, he almost smiles.
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But you're sitting next to a trail of flowers that
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grew from your shadow, So I'm not sure insane is
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a useful metric right now? He has a point. Why
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can you see them? I ask my assistant couldn't. No
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one else has reacted because I carry it too. He
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holds up his hand palm facing the garden, and I watch.
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I watch as a dead twig on the ground near
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his feet suddenly sprouts leaves, fresh green growth erupting from
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dry wood in seconds. It's been ten years for me.
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I've learned to live with it. Mostly. I stare at
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the twig, at the impossible leaves, at this man who
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apparently shares my impossible condition. What triggered yours?
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I ask?
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His face changes, Something shutters behind his eyes, a fire.
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He says, I died in it. When I came back,
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I came back different. He stands, abruptly, brushing off his jeans. Look,
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this isn't a conversation to have in one sitting. There's
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a lot to explain, and you're not going to believe
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most of it. And the Gala is in three weeks,
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and you have a job to do. I can't just
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ignore this, no, But you also can't skip the next
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three weeks of your life to figure it out. He
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pulls a card from his pocket, plain white, just his
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name and a phone number, no company logo. Call me tonight, tomorrow,
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whenever you're ready. We'll talk more. I take the card.
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My hands are still shaking. Why are you helping me?
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He looks at me for a long moment. There's something
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in his expression, sadness maybe, or recognition, something I don't
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have a name for. Because I spent years thinking I
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was alone in this, he says, and I know how
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that feels. He walks back to his truck, and I
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watch him go, the card pressed between my fingers behind
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me in the greenhouse, my shadow flowers are still blooming,
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and somewhere deep inside, in a place I've spent thirty
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years trying to forget exists, something is waking up. That night,
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I go home to an apartment full of flowers. They're everywhere,
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growing from the cracks in the hardwood, climbing the walls,
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spreading across surfaces that should be sterile and bare minimum.
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Tiss Sanctuary has become a greenhouse, a riot of color
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and life and chaos. I stand in the doorway, keys
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in hand, and I feel something crack inside me. This
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is what I was afraid of. This is what I've
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always been afraid of, the mess. I can't control the wildness.
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I can't contain the part of me that was always
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too much, too loud, too alive. I was seven years
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old when my mother first locked herself in her bedroom
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to get away from me. I was crying about something
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I don't even remember what, and she just couldn't take it.
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You're exhausting, she said through the door. You're too much.
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Why can't you just be normal? So I learned. I