The city unfolded before my eyes in a yellowish hue, scattered over red-tiled roofs and verdant balconies. From the attic floor of my apartment, I’m Lucy, 31 years old, meticulously sketched. Soft pencil lines glided across the paper, forming the curves of pathways, the shapes of flowerbeds, and the green swaths of foliage. I was a landscape architect, a profession many considered enviable. They looked at my designs with awe, praising my creativity, my ability to transform inanimate spaces into works of art. But for me, each drawing seemed to lack something intangible – a soul.
I once possessed that soul. It resided in musical notes, in lyrics. In my twenties, I was a small, burning flame, yearning to stand on a stage, microphone in hand, and let my voice touch the hearts of listeners. I still vividly recall those scorching summer afternoons of my twenties, the stuffy, hot dorm room, with the ceiling fan endlessly spinning yet unable to dispel the heat of the day. But strangely, the rustic strum of my guitar and my clear singing voice transported me to another world, where all dreams could soar, where I could be anyone I wanted. That singing voice was my breath, my reason for existence during those impulsive, youthful years. It was a beacon guiding me through the uncertainties of adulthood.
But then, harsh reality brutally extinguished that flame. Not due to a lack of talent – I believed I had a bit – but because of a lack of “path,” a lack of necessary connections, and perhaps, a lack of courage to confront the entertainment industry’s cruelty. They said my voice was beautiful, but “lacked personality,” was “not explosive enough,” and “didn’t have anyone backing me.” I tried, knocked on many doors, sang in many small bars, but the grand door of my dream remained tightly shut. After graduating with a finance degree, I decided, with a heavy heart, to tuck away my guitar, my melodies, and a part of my artistic soul into a closet. I became a loan officer at a small bank, a dry, repetitive job of numbers and rigid rules. It was stable, providing a steady income, and more importantly, it helped me pay off my massive student loans – a heavy burden weighing on young graduates like me. I told myself it was maturity, it was accepting reality.
My life became monochromatic, like a song with only a single, endlessly repeating low note. I sketched gardens, creating green spaces to escape the monotony of reality. My apartment overflowed with plants, from dangling ferns to philodendron vines trailing across bookshelves, transforming it into a small oasis amidst the bustling city. Occasionally, I’d hum old tunes in the shower, the sound of water masking any off-key notes, or gently caress the dusty strings of my guitar, but I never allowed myself to sing aloud in front of anyone, not even to myself. The dream of singing had become a buried secret.
And then, Nathan appeared. He was a promising real estate developer, with a radiant smile and captivating eyes, as if he could see straight into one’s soul. Nathan met me at a landscape architecture exhibition I participated in, where I displayed my boldest designs. He stood for a long time in front of my booth, his gaze not merely sweeping past like others, but lingering on every detail. He didn’t just view my designs with a business partner’s eye, but with genuine admiration, something I rarely felt.
He pointed to a Zen garden design, describing the gentle flow of water and the arrangement of pebbles. “These lines… they truly have a life of their own. It’s as if the garden breathes. You don’t just design landscapes, Lucy. You create spaces where the soul can heal.”
I was quite surprised by such a profound compliment. Few people truly understood the meaning behind my drawings, the emotions I poured into every leaf and stone. Suddenly, I felt a magical connection between him and me.
“Thank you,” I replied, my heart slightly stirring. “I always believe that every green space can be a balm for the soul.”
Nathan smiled, his eyes sparkling with understanding. “I completely agree. And what’s more interesting, I feel that your gardens have a melody of their own. I can sense the music in every leaf, every flower. Have you ever thought of returning to music? Your voice must be as wonderful as these gardens.”
Nathan’s words sent a jolt down my spine. It had been so long since anyone had mentioned my dream of singing, since anyone had reignited that smouldering flame. He wasn’t just a potential business partner; he was someone who saw the real me within, an artist still held captive, a longing still burning silently.
We began meeting more frequently, initially for business, then for endless coffee conversations about art, life, and dreams. Nathan always encouraged me to share about music, about the songs I used to compose. He said he also once had an unfulfilled artistic dream – a professional dancer – but due to family pressure, he had to give it up to pursue a business career. It seemed there was always an invisible link between us, that of music and art.
“I understand that feeling, Lucy,” he said, his eyes distant. “When a dream is put aside, it feels like a part of your soul is taken away. I still remember the feeling of liberation when I immersed myself in dance, without any constraints. That’s a part of life I can never get back. And you, do you still sing?”
I hesitated, feeling as if an invisible thread in my heart had been untangled. “Occasionally. Humming while doing chores. Or in the shower. Never in front of an audience.” I felt a little ashamed admitting it, but he just smiled encouragingly.
We found common ground in our unfulfilled dreams, a deep empathy I had never shared with anyone else. Nathan listened to me talk about music with an empathetic gaze, as if he had experienced similar feelings, as if he truly understood that loss. He made me feel understood, appreciated, a feeling I had lost long ago, buried under numbers and rules.
Our relationship developed quickly, like a whirlwind sweeping me away. My mother, Jennifer, a traditional woman, always worried about her “overdue” daughter, constantly asking when I would settle down. “My dear, you’re already thirty. When are you going to think about getting married? I want grandchildren to hold, like Mrs. Anna’s daughter. She got pregnant right after getting married,” Mom said over the phone, her voice filled with impatience.
“Mom, I’m happy as I am. Nathan and I are still just getting to know each other,” I replied, though my heart had already begun to stir.
“What more is there to know? If you love each other, just get married. That Nathan boy seems decent, from a good family, stable job. Get married first, then think about children,” Mom continued, her voice decisive, as if she were a marriage expert.
And although I wasn’t entirely ready for marriage, I gradually softened to Nathan’s relentless pursuit. He spoiled me, at least in the beginning. Romantic dinners by candlelight at luxurious restaurants, surprise gifts like new headphones because he knew I still liked humming while doing chores, or unexpected bouquets of roses for no particular occasion, simply because “I thought you deserved beautiful things.”
He placed a vibrant red bouquet of roses on the dining table, his eyes gentle. “These are for you, Lucy. No special occasion. I just think you deserve beautiful things.”
“Oh, Nathan, you’re so sweet. Thank you,” I said, my heart melting.
Everything felt like a sweet dream, a love ballad I had once longed to sing, now suddenly becoming reality. I believed I had found a peaceful haven, a man who understood me, and a family where I could belong, where I would no longer feel lonely. A year later, we got married. Nathan worked for a large financial consulting firm in Charlotte, earning a sky-high income. He held my hand, his gaze affectionate, one starlit evening on the balcony of our new apartment. “Lucy, you’ve worked hard enough. You deserve time off after all those busy years at the bank. Just quit your job, focus on our family. I’ll take care of everything.”
I agreed, partly because I wanted children, partly because I believed in the promise of a peaceful, happy married life, where I could live a more relaxed existence. Nathan transitioned me to freelance consulting, allowing me more flexibility and, importantly, the freedom to focus on larger, “more artistic” landscape design projects he had promised to help me find. He introduced me to a few potential partners who were interested in incorporating unique landscape designs into their real estate ventures. I felt more excited than ever. My life seemed to be turning a vibrant, promising new page.
But not long after the wedding, the first cracks began to appear. I began to understand Nathan’s family better, or rather, the secrets hidden within his family. We moved into Nathan’s villa, an old, secluded house nestled in a vast, overgrown garden. It was a breathtakingly beautiful place, with ancient Gothic architecture, moss-covered stone walls, and majestic, centuries-old trees. Yet it possessed a terrifying stillness, almost isolating, making me sometimes shiver. Nathan began to grow distant; his mysterious business trips became more frequent, leaving me alone in the vast, frighteningly empty villa. He no longer asked about my designs, nor did he mention music. His phone calls became brief, superficial, focused only on telling me to “take good care of the house” and “not to disturb him when he was working.”
Gradually, I realised I wasn’t allowed into certain areas of the house. There was a locked room in the basement, which Nathan always said “contained confidential business documents, absolutely not to be touched.” There was a section of the back garden completely obscured by thick, towering climbing vines, which Nathan explained was “an area under renovation, dangerous, possibly with snakes and poisonous insects.” And specifically, there was Ivy’s bedroom – Nathan’s sister, who was supposedly very ill and needed to be completely isolated to avoid infection or disturbance.
Linda, Nathan’s mother, managed all activities in the villa and especially Ivy’s care. She was an elegantly dressed woman, with her hair neatly tied up and her clothes always pristine and luxurious, but her eyes were as cold as ice, harbouring a terrifying control, as if she could read people’s every thought. She always spoke of Ivy with a sorrowful expression, expressing deep pity.
She spoke with a sad face, but a firm, emotionless voice. “It’s heartbreaking, Lucy. My little Ivy. Such an angel, but fate has been so cruel. Ever since that fever at eight years old, the child just… stopped speaking, stopped walking. Even the best doctors gave up. I just want her to have absolute peace and quiet.”
I initially felt boundless pity for Ivy, a pretty little girl with big, round, clear eyes, who had to endure such a harsh fate. She always sat in a wheelchair or lay in bed, looking out the window with a distant gaze. But strangely, Ivy didn’t seem as distressed as I imagined. Although she couldn’t speak, she communicated through drawings and a special alphabet board. Gradually, I learned to understand Ivy through her eyes, her smiles, and her gentle gestures. I realised Ivy was much smarter and more perceptive than Nathan’s family acknowledged; she seemed to understand everything happening around her. I remember one time sitting with Ivy on the porch outside her room, I pointed to the sky and drew a musical note in the air, as if to recall my faded dream. Ivy smiled and drew a big heart in the air.
I signed, looking at Ivy. “Do you understand me?”
Ivy nodded, her eyes sparkling as if we had just shared a private secret, an unspoken understanding I had never found with anyone else, not even Nathan.
Every time I tried to approach Ivy, wanting to spend more time with her, Linda would appear like a phantom, stopping me. She forbade me from entering Ivy’s room without permission and limited my time with her.
She stood by Ivy’s room door, her eyes sharp as ice when I tried to get close. “Lucy, you don’t need to bother Ivy. She needs absolute quiet. Any disturbance could worsen her condition. It’s best if you leave her alone. I’ve hired a special caregiver for her.” I also sensed those unusual behaviours, but it was all just in my thoughts.
The villa became a maze of locked rooms, vague explanations, and a growing isolation for me. I started to feel suffocated in my own home, like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. Phone calls from Linda became more frequent, not to check in, but to control every aspect of my life.
“Lucy, are you cleaning the house? The floor should be mopped with a special floor cleaner, not just water, you know. It looks dirty. Oh, and you should remember to cook dinner on time. Nathan doesn’t like to wait,” she said over the phone, her voice sharp, full of condescension.
Or worse, she would show up unannounced, carrying a bag of groceries and a list of “suggestions” on how I should take care of the house, cook, or even how I should dress, as if I were a new housekeeper needing detailed instructions for every little thing. I no longer felt the love of a family.
She stood with her arms crossed at the apartment door, looking inside with a scrutinising gaze. “This apartment looks a bit messy, doesn’t it? Don’t let Nathan come home to an uncomfortable place. You know he likes things tidy. Mom bought you some of these cleaners; they work great. You should try them. Things need to be in their proper place, Lucy dear.”
I used to think marriage meant a peaceful home, where I could be myself, loved and respected. But gradually, I realised I had stepped into a family with an invisible hierarchy, where every word had to be weighed to please the head of the household, and my sacrifices were considered obvious duties, not deserving of recognition. Nathan, who was once my light, now became a stranger, an indifferent figure. He never stood up to defend me against his mother’s criticisms; he just remained silent, or even agreed with her.
I whispered to Nathan later, when we got home, trying to suppress my disappointment. “Don’t you think Mom was out of line? Aren’t you going to say anything to defend me?”
He shrugged, his eyes blank, turning his back to me. “My mom’s always like that, Lucy. You just have to get used to it.She’s only partly right. I can’t keep defending you all the time. I have too much else to worry about.”
Eventually, I stopped talking to him about such things, and he stopped asking. Our marriage became a terrifying silence, where I felt myself slowly sinking, disappearing into my own shadow. I also gradually accepted that there would always be someone in my life watching me as a pastime, arranging and controlling my private life. I couldn’t have guessed that Ivy, always considered helpless and silent, would be the one to change my life forever. She, hidden beneath her fragile facade, concealed a power and a terrifying secret capable of shaking the very foundation of this seemingly perfect family.
After a few months in the villa, my married life became a long string of waiting and gnawing loneliness. Nathan’s sweet whispers gradually disappeared. He no longer smiled radiantly when I brought him his morning coffee, a smile that used to be my sunrise, my reason to start the day. He stopped texting to ask if I’d had lunch, and stopped sending those sudden affectionate messages during the day. Those small things that once made me feel loved, cherished suddenly vanished like mist, leaving no trace.
Nathan started coming home late more often. At first, it was long meetings, then urgent projects that required him to work all night, then sudden, unannounced business trips that lasted for weeks. He claimed his boss needed him to stay late to review documents, or that there were important client meetings far away.
One night, Nathan came home at midnight, looking utterly exhausted, his suit jacket wrinkled. “You’re home? I’ve been waiting for you. Are you hungry? Should I warm up some food for you?” I asked, my voice filled with concern, trying to touch the lingering bit of affection between us.
He replied indifferently, as he took off his tie, not bothering to meet my gaze. “No need. I’ve already eaten out. It’s justwork. You go to sleep.”
On those nights, I would eat dinner alone, staring at my cold plate of food and trying to reassure myself that he was just busy with work, that this was a tough phase every couple goes through. I cleaned the house, watched TV, or sat alone in the empty living room, feeling the loneliness creep into every crevice of our marriage, every corner of the vast house. I called, I texted, but his replies were always curt, cold, like automated messages without emotion.
I also took the time to care for him and texted him. “Are you okay? I miss you.”
But he usually replied hours later with a cold and indifferent attitude. “I’m fine. Busy.” Or sometimes, just an empty emoji.
As time passed, the distance between us became clearer, impossible to hide. Nathan grew distant, both physically and emotionally. When I asked questions, he would deflect, change the subject, or worse, get annoyed, saying I was “thinking too much” and that I was too sensitive.
One evening, I sat next to Nathan on the sofa, trying to start a conversation. “Honey, you’ve been acting strange lately. Is something going on at work? Or… are you unhappy with me?”
He sighed, looking at his phone screen, as if I were bothering him. “What’s going on? Don’t overthink things, Lucy. I told you work is busy. Women always complicate things.”
“But I’m just worried about you. We don’t talk much anymore. If things continue like this… I feel like we’re becoming strangers,” I said, my voice trembling slightly.
“I said it’s fine. Just leave me alone. I need to focus,” he snapped, his voice sharp.
When I fell silent, he also made no effort to mend things, no attempt to bridge the invisible gap between us. On evenings Nathan came home, he would just bury his head in his laptop, or watch sports, completely ignoring me and my thoughts and feelings. I felt like a ghost in my own home, an invisible presence.
As Nathan grew distant, I found myself growing closer to Ivy. Ivy became my only friend, a place where I could confide, even though she couldn’t speak. I often visited her in her room, bringing comic books and colouring pages. At first, my mother-in-law was displeased; she looked at me with an unfavourable gaze when she saw me spending time with Ivy, as if I were wasting time on a “burden” to the family. But I no longer cared. Every time I came, Ivy would be waiting at the window, her sketchbook ready on her lap. She drew small houses with smoking chimneys, funny cats wearing hats, and kites soaring in the blue sky, sometimes strange flowers I had never seen. In Ivy’s drawings, I saw her spirit, vibrant, intelligent, and much more perceptive than Nathan’s family acknowledged. She seemed to understand everything happening around her. I started learning sign language in the evenings, after Nathan had gone to sleep or was working on his computer. At first, I only learned basic signs like “hello” and “thank you.” But very soon, I understood more. It wasn’t just a language. It was a bridge connecting me and Ivy, an escape from the cold world where my mother-in-law’s sharp words still echoed in my ears.
One evening, my mother-in-law stood with her arms crossed at Ivy’s room door, looking at me with disdain. “I don’t understand why Nathan chose someone like you, Lucy. You’re nothing special. Nothing to boast about. Why do you keep bothering this child? She doesn’t even understand what you’re saying.”
I didn’t respond, not because I had nothing to say, but because I knew with Linda, silence was the clearest form of resistance, the only way not to get sucked into the vortex of her meaningless scolding. Every word she uttered seemed like an attempt to fix me, to mold me into the version she wanted, a perfect version in her eyes. And Nathan. He didn’t defend me, nor did he object to his mother, as if her words had nothing to do with him.
I whispered to Nathan later, when we got home. “Don’t you think Mom was out of line? Aren’t you going to say anything to defend me?”
He shrugged, his eyes blank, turning his back to me. “My mom’s always like that, Lucy. You just have to get used to it.She’s only partly right. I can’t keep defending you all the time. I have too much else to worry about.”
Eventually, I stopped talking to him about such things, and he stopped asking. Our marriage became a terrifying silence, where I felt myself slowly sinking, disappearing into my own shadow.
One early autumn evening, as the leaves were just beginning to turn golden, I arrived at Nathan’s parents’ house with a tray of homemade pumpkin pie. Ivy loved pumpkin pie, and I wanted to surprise her. But when I walked in, I saw Nathan sitting in the living room with his mother, both laughing and chatting happily—a sight I hadn’t seen him display with me in a long time. His smile for his mother was bright and relaxed, not forced like when he was with me, as if he were a completely different person.
He spoke, his voice utterly devoid of warmth, even a hint of annoyance. “You came tonight?”
Trying to keep calm, I replied, “Yes. I made this pie for Ivy. You didn’t mention you’d be here.”
My mother-in-law cut me off. “No need to mention it, Lucy. Family can come anytime. You have no right to question my Nathan.”
It sounded warm, but I knew the words weren’t meant for me, but rather as a reminder that I didn’t truly belong to “this family,” I was just an outsider.
I walked over to Ivy. She was still sitting by the window as always, but this time without her sketchbook, just clutching an old blue pillow. She looked at me, blinking slowly as if to ask: “Are you okay?” I forced a smile and signed: “I’m okay.” But at that moment, I realised my hands were trembling, a powerful sense of unease washing over me, like a heavy stone weighing on my heart.
That night, when we got home, Nathan barely said a word. The entire apartment was immersed in a heavy silence, and the ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual. I took off my coat, hung it up, and then turned to ask him:
Softly, full of worry, I said, “Is there something you’re not telling me? You seem different.”
Nathan flinched, as if caught off guard. “What kind of question is that? I don’t know. Are you overthinking things again?”
I looked straight into his eyes, trying to find a spark, a truth, a bit of the connection I once felt. “I just feel like you’re not here anymore. Not completely. We have such a huge distance between us.”
He sighed, looking down at the floor for a moment before speaking, his voice filled with weariness, as if he was utterly fed up with my questions. “It’s just work, Lucy. Don’t overthink it. I already told you not to overthink things.”
That same old line. “Don’t overthink it.” The phrase he used to dismiss all my doubts, all my emotions, as if I were a bothersome child. I didn’t say anything more. But I knew my intuition wasn’t wrong. Something was happening in this family, a big secret was being hidden, and I, whom he once cherished, now felt like an outsider in my marriage. Ivy was the only light left, a fragile glimmer of hope. But what I didn’t know was that her light would be the one to expose all the secrets that Nathan and his family had been hiding for so long, and it would change my life forever.
In those long, sleepless nights, gnawing loneliness drove me to seek a refuge, an escape. I began to find strange solace in the back garden of the villa, the part Nathan and his mother didn’t forbid me from entering. It was a vast but desolate garden, long neglected, with moss-covered paths and overgrown wild bushes. It held a mysterious, sombre beauty, starkly different from the neat, rigid arrangement of the front garden, where everything was perfectly pruned like a sculpture.
I spent hours there, not just to find peace but also to escape the suffocating atmosphere inside the house, from Linda’s scrutinising gaze and Nathan’s indifference. I started tending to it, planting shade-loving flowers, ancient ferns, and listening to the hum of insects in the night. The rustle of dry leaves underfoot, the damp scent of earth and decaying foliage, and the tiny sounds of nature became my only companions. I created small paths, placed old, moss-covered stone benches, transforming the wild garden into a space with my unique mark—a therapeutic garden in the literal sense, but one meant to heal my own breaking heart. It was where I could breathe, where I could be myself.
One drizzly afternoon, as I was pruning an old climbing rose bush near the towering, vine-covered wall, I stumbled upon a small door completely hidden by thick tendrils of vines. It was an old wooden door, almost blending into the moss-covered wall, not easily noticeable unless one looked closely. My heart pounded. This must be the entrance to the forbidden part of the garden that Nathan had mentioned, calling it “dangerous” and “under renovation.” But its desolate appearance told a different story—a story of abandonment, of a buried secret. I tried to open it, but it was tightly lockedwith a rusty, heavy padlock.
That night, I lay awake, my mind incessantly dwelling on the door and the secrets it might conceal. I recalled Ivy’s fleeting glances through the high window on rare afternoons, a gaze not entirely vacant as Nathan’s mother described. Sometimes, she would look out, seemingly searching for something or someone. I wondered, did Ivy see me in this garden? Was Ivy truly as ill as Linda claimed, needing complete isolation? Or was there something else hidden behind her fragile appearance and Linda’s tight control? A sense of unease crept in, not just curiosity, but a strong premonition.
Loneliness and curiosity spurred me on. I began spending more time in the garden, not just tending to the plants but also searching for clues, for cracks in the mysterious veil covering the villa. I started carrying a new sketchbook, not for client designs, but to record every tiny detail in this forgotten garden. I drew every corner, every wild flower, every crack in the wall, hoping to find a pattern, a sign. The garden, once my refuge, has now become a key to unravelling secrets, a place holding unspoken questions.
Whenever I tried to get close to Ivy’s room, my mother-in-law’s footsteps would echo in the hallway, or an “important” phone call from Nathan would come at just the right moment, pulling me away. I felt like I was being tightened by an invisible net, each thread a mix of control and deception. The dark garden became the only place where I could think, the only place where I felt like myself, and where questions about the truth incessantly echoed in my mind. I knew something was wrong, and I had to find out.
One night, the restless feeling in my heart reached its peak. I couldn’t fall asleep. Nathan’s soft snoring from the next room only amplified my solitude. I quietly slipped out of bed, went downstairs, and into the back garden. The full moon, perfectly round, shone through the ancient trees, casting strange, dancing shadows on the moss-covered paths. The garden at night possessed an eerie, silent beauty, but I didn’t feel scared. It seemed to be the only place where I felt safe in this house, where all falsehoods seemed unable to reach me.
As I approached the locked wooden door I’d discovered days earlier, a glimmer of light caught my eye. Beneath the ancient tree nearby, half-buried in the damp moss, was something small and silvery, reflecting the faint moonlight. My heart pounded, a strong premonition running down my spine. It was a small, old key, yet strangely shiny, as if it had just been used.
My hands trembled as I picked up the key. It seemed to fit the rusty padlock on the door. With a held breath, I inserted the key. A soft “click” echoed, breaking the stillness of the night. The wooden door slowly creaked open, revealing a small, dark, winding path. The smell of damp earth and decaying leaves wafted into my nostrils.
I took a deep breath and stepped inside. The path led me to another garden, a place utterly contrasting with the rest of the villa. This garden was filled with pristine white flowers, like lilies, jasmine, and milky white petunias, glowing faintly under the moonlight, creating an ethereal yet haunting spectacle. At its centre was a dry marble fountain, and behind it, hidden among the green bushes, was an old greenhouse with stained, yellowed glass panels, covered in dust but still reflecting the dim moonlight.
As I approached the greenhouse, I heard a faint sound from within. A soft scuffing, like wheelchair wheels on the hard floor. I tiptoed to the dirty glass pane, trying not to make a sound. All my senses were heightened. Inside, a young woman sat in a wheelchair, her back to me. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, partly obscuring her face. I recognised the familiar contours of her hair and figure. It was Ivy.
But then, something horrifying happened, making my blood run cold. The woman in the wheelchair suddenly pushed herself up, standing upright. She wasn’t ill, she wasn’t paralysed at all! Ivy walked freely, lightly, even taking a few dancing steps like a true professional dancer, full of grace and elegance. Moonlight illuminated her face as she turned, and I saw clearly: it wasn’t Ivy. It was Meline Harper, the woman Nathan had been secretly meeting, the one I only knew through my husband’s furtive phone calls, and the times he would quickly hang up when I came near.
Meline stood before an easel, on which were sketches of my garden, detailed designs I had joyfully shown to Nathan, hoping for a bright future. She was redrawing them, copying them perfectly, every line, every tiny detail. And beside her lay a thick stack of documents bearing Nathan’s company logo. These weren’t ordinary sketches; they were large-scale real estate development plans, using my garden design ideas but modified, distorted, geared towards massive profits and dark purposes I was completely unaware of.
I heard Meline’s low, calculating voice as she murmured to herself, full of self-satisfaction: “Perfect. That girl has talent, but she’s too naive. With these designs, Nathan will land the big contract, and we’ll have it all.”
Just then, a familiar cold voice echoed from the greenhouse door, startling me. “Yes, it will all be ours.” Nathan walked in, completely unaware of my presence. He placed a hand on Meline’s shoulder, gently stroked her hair, then leaned down to kiss her lips intimately, an affectionate gesture I had yearned for so long but never received from my husband.
“Everything’s going smoothly,” Nathan said, his voice full of self-satisfaction, without a hint of worry. “Lucy doesn’t suspect a thing. She’s too busy with that haunted garden. My mother has handled Ivy. No one can mess up this plan. That room is completely isolated.”
My heart stopped. The entire truth crashed down on me like a dousing wave, chilling me to the bone, leaving me numb. Ivy was isolated not because of illness, but to conceal a conspiracy, a meticulously staged act by Nathan and Meline to seize inheritance, even intellectual property from my designs. Nathan never loved me. He only exploited my talent and my gullibility, turning me into a pawn in their dirty game. My therapeutic garden, my dreams, were all just tools in their hands. The feeling of betrayal, of being deceived, surged through me, more painful than any physical wound, piercing my very soul.
I trembled and stepped back, bumping into a potted plant near the greenhouse door. The shattering sound of the pot and falling earth startled Nathan and Meline. They turned, their faces pale as they saw me standing there, my eyes filled with horror and betrayal, mixed with a burning rage, an uncontrollable flame.
“Lucy… You… What are you doing here?” Nathan stammered, his voice choked with shock, his eyes wide with panic.
“You… you’ve deceived me!” My voice was hoarse, but filled with fury, each word like a knife plunging straight into them.
Just then, a figure slowly emerged from behind the greenhouse, from a dark corner I hadn’t seen before. It was Ivy. But not the frail, wheelchair-bound Ivy I had imagined. This was a thin, pale Ivy, with eyes filled with extreme fear, but she was moving on her own, slowly and shakily. She wasn’t paralysed at all, but clearly weakened and utterly terrified. Her long hair was dishevelled, her big, round eyes glistened with tears, looking at me as if pleading for help.
I looked at Ivy, then at Nathan and Meline, feeling a cold current run through my body, a terrible truth being revealed.”Ivy… What is this?”
Nathan and Meline looked at each other, their eyes wide with panic. Meline tried to flee from the greenhouse, darting towards the door like a madwoman, but Nathan quickly grabbed her, squeezing her arm tightly. Nathan growled, his face contorted with anger and extreme fear. “You fool! What have you done, Ivy?! You can’t say anything! You have to keep silent!”
But Ivy didn’t speak. She just looked at me with a pleading gaze, an expression filled with extreme fear but also a faint glimmer of hope. She tried to raise her hand, as if to sign something, but then suddenly collapsed to the ground, completely exhausted, her body trembling uncontrollably.
I rushed to Ivy’s side, helping her up, feeling her trembling, icy-cold body. As I did, something small and hard fell from Meline’s pocket as she struggled to pull away, hitting a chair. It was a tiny, black voice recorder. Nathan and Meline were too panicked to notice that small but deadly loss. I quickly picked it up and pressed play.
The sound echoed in the greenhouse, clear and distinct, cold and cruel. Linda’s voice mixed with Nathan’s. Every word, every sentence, felt like a fatal blow to me.
The recording: “…That child is just a burden. She must never be allowed to speak or walk. We have to keep her isolated. Only when she is completely ‘useless,’ can we control everything, including that cursed will.” That was Linda’s voice, chillingly sharp, devoid of any maternal or aunt-like affection.
The recording: “That’s right, Mom. And Lucy, she’s too naive. She’ll be the perfect cover for all my plans. She’ll create beautiful ‘therapeutic gardens’ for my projects, without knowing their true purpose. I’ll sign lucrative contracts thanks to those ideas, and she won’t get a single penny.” Nathan’s voice, indifferent and cold, like a stranger’s, made me shudder.
The recording continued with detailed discussions about seizing Ivy’s inheritance. It turned out that Nathan and Ivy’s father had left a secret will for Ivy, a substantial portion of his estate that Nathan and Linda wanted to bury to gain sole control. They had staged Ivy’s illness, confined her, and administered low doses of sedatives to keep her constantly drowsy and weak, unable to resist or reveal the truth. And then, they used my designs to profit from real estate projects I knew nothing about, turning my hard work into their gain. I even heard Meline’s faint giggle as they discussed exploiting my trust, about the huge sums of money they would earn from my blindness.
I turned off the voice recorder, my voice trembling but filled with unexpected strength. “You… you not only deceived me, but you also imprisoned and exploited your sister! You are monsters! You will pay for this!”
Nathan lunged at me, his eyes bloodshot, his face distorted with anger and desperation, trying to snatch the recorder. Meline stood frozen, her face pale, completely disoriented, her eyes wide with horror. But I was prepared for this moment. I had anticipated Nathan’s desperation and violence. I deftly dodged his lunge and quickly pressed the send button on my phone. A text message had been sent.
“I’ve called the police. Everything will be exposed. You can’t escape,” I said, my voice resonating clearly and decisively in the silent confines of the greenhouse, each word like a hammer blow to their ears.
Nathan and Meline looked at each other in horror, all traces of arrogance gone. The distant wail of police sirens grew louder, tearing through the quiet night of the garden. They were getting closer and closer, each siren blast like a death knell for their crimes.
Nathan roared, his face contorted with extreme anger and panic. “What have you done, Lucy?! You’re ruining everything! My career, my life!”
I stood tall, my gaze firm, looking straight into his panicked eyes. “You ruined my life, Nathan. And now, it’s your turn to face the consequences of the lies you’ve sown.”
The police sirens grew steadily louder, then abruptly stopped right at the villa’s gate. Footsteps pounded, sharp commands were barked. The greenhouse door burst open. Police officers stormed in, their flashlights sweeping the area, shining directly onto Nathan and Meline’s pale faces, exposing their naked truth under the light of the law.
Nathan and Meline were handcuffed and arrested on the spot. Ivy, after receiving first aid and being calmed by the paramedics who arrived with the police, recounted the entire story of how her stepmother, Linda, had confined her, administering mild sedatives to create the illusion of weakness and inability to speak or walk, all to conceal her late father’s will. Meline was an accomplice, helping Nathan execute real estate transactions based on my stolen designs. Ivy’s testimony, along with the voice recording and my copied designs, created irrefutable evidence, a damning indictment.
That whole night, I stayed at the police station, giving my detailed statement. My heart was still pounding with shock and anger, but mixed with it was a strange sense of relief. Finally, the truth was out, the burden so long lifted.
The case of Nathan and Linda quickly became a public sensation, dominating headlines and local news channels. With irrefutable evidence from me and Ivy’s detailed testimony, Nathan and Meline were sentenced to prison for fraud, embezzlement, and copyright infringement. Their sentences were severe enough to make them reflect on their actions for a long time. Linda, as the mastermind and for her illegal confinement of Ivy, also faced a harsh sentence, forced to pay for her crimes, for the cruelty and greed that had torn a family apart. Nathan’s assets were frozen to compensate both Ivy and me; justice had finally been served.
I divorced Nathan. The divorce was quick and decisive, unburdened by lingering ties, like cutting away a cancerous tumour. I not only recovered all my assets but also regained the intellectual property rights to my designs – something more precious than any money. More importantly, I found myself again. I realised that true strength isn’t about living in a false “dream,” desperately clinging to a toxic relationship, but about facing the truth, no matter how painful. It’s about knowing when to let go of what no longer belongs to you, when to step onto a new path, and when to fight for yourself, for your dignity.
I used the compensation money to establish my own landscape design company, named “The Revival Garden.” I no longer designed mere gardens. Every garden I created was not just a place for relaxation but a symbol of recovery, of finding hope after loss, of healing emotional wounds. I wanted to create spaces where human souls could heal, where they could find peace and new strength, just as I had healed myself in Nathan’s villa’s forgotten garden. My first project was to renovate that very back garden of the villa, transforming what was once a hell into a lush green paradise.
The bond between Ivy and me grew stronger than ever. Ivy, after intensive psychological therapy and physical rehabilitation, regained her health and spirit. She was no longer timid or fearful but became confident and vibrant. Her heart had grown much stronger, like a flower watered after a long drought. Ivy began pursuing her dream of becoming a dancer, a dream she had once been forced to abandon. She frequently assisted me in my garden design projects, creating “moving gardens” where dance movements could blend with the landscape, offering a unique experience for viewers, combining architectural and performing arts. Two women, once victims of manipulation and lies, have now become creators, bringing beauty and healing to the world around them. We were more than just former sisters-in-law; we were soulmates, comrades who had weathered the storm together, and now, together, we built a bright future.
My life now was no longer a monotonous, sad melody. It was a symphony with many movements, featuring both the sombre notes of the past as a reminder, but predominantly the high notes of hope, freedom, and relentless creativity. I no longer feared unexpected doorbell rings or controlling phone calls. I had found my voice, and I knew how to use it to protect myself and those I loved.
A year later, I sat in my new office, looking out at the bustling city. My office was located in a tall building, with large windows welcoming the morning sun, illuminating the latest designs on my desk – drawings full of life and joy, each stroke carrying aspirations and freedom. On the wall hung a large photograph, capturing a meaningful moment: Ivy and I, standing together in one of our first “Revival Gardens.” Ivy smiled radiantly, in a graceful ballet pose, while I stood beside her, my gaze firm and full of pride, a contented smile on my lips.
The phone rang, pulling me from my thoughts. It was Ivy. Her voice was clear, brimming with energy.
“Lucy! Our new community park project has been approved! They want a ‘music garden’!” Ivy’s voice was full of excitement, ringing through the phone, like cheerful musical notes.
I smiled, feeling the joy spread through me. “Wonderful, Ivy. I already have a few ideas. Let’s meet tomorrow morning, and we’ll turn that garden into a true symphony, where everyone can find peace and inspiration from music and nature.”
I hung up, my heart overflowing with inspiration. I stood up and walked to the old guitar still hanging on my office wall. It was no longer dusty, but carefully polished, every string gleaming, like a relic of the past, but also a symbol of the future, of a dream reborn. I gently touched the strings, humming a new melody, a melody full of hope and vitality. It was no longer the song of an unfulfilled dream or a captive soul. It was the echo of a new dawn, a life reborn from the wreckage of lies, of betrayal.
The hazy garden of memory had now been replaced by a vibrant garden of hope, where every blooming flower told a story of resilience and freedom. I had been betrayed, dismissed, and abandoned. But it was precisely those experiences that helped me rediscover my self-worth, to find an inner strength I never knew I possessed. Life doesn’t end when someone leaves you. It truly begins when you decide to move forward for yourself, for your happiness and peace, for a future you forge with your own hands.
What steps will you take to find your voice and light, just like Lucy did?