Image by jana ohajdova from pexels
Trisha had lived in Pinebrook her whole life, and she thought she knew everything about the town. She knew the hidden trails behind the old mill, the best fishing spots along the creek, and exactly where to find the first wildflowers of spring. But what she and everyone else didn’t know was that Pinebrook had a secret.
It began on the first warm day of April when the last bits of frost disappeared from the ground. The sun stretched longer in the sky, painting the streets in golden light. Trisha had been walking home from school, her backpack slung over one shoulder, when something strange caught her eye.
The old Ash-house at the edge of town, that was abandoned for as long as she could remember, had a light on inside.
She stopped, gripping the straps of her backpack. The Ash-house had always been a place of mystery, its wooden panels worn with age, its glass windows clouded with dust. For years, kids had dared each other to step onto its porch, whispering stories about ghosts and secret gardens. But no one had ever gone inside.
Now, as Trisha stared at the house, she swore she saw something move, a shadow shifting behind the dusty windows, a movement among the vines curling along the walls.
Her heart pounded. Someone was in there.
Curiosity tugged at her, stronger than fear. She looked around. The street was empty. If she hurried, no one would even know she had been there.
Taking a deep breath, she crossed the road and walked up the path. Up close, the house looked even older, the wooden door slightly ajar. A soft floral scent drifted through the air, not the usual spring flowers, but something richer, wilder.
She hesitated. Then, gathering her courage, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The moment she entered, warmth wrapped around her, like stepping into a summer day. The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers filled her lungs.
But it wasn’t just any flowers.
The Ash-house was alive.
Rows of plants stretched from floor to ceiling, their leaves a vibrant green, their petals glowing with soft, shifting colors. Vines twisted along the walls. Large, pulsing blossoms hovered in the air, held up by nothing but their own magic. Tiny, glowing seeds floated lazily around her like fireflies.
Trisha took a step forward, her breath catching in surprise. It was beautiful, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen.
Then, from the far end of the room, a voice spoke.
“I was wondering when you’d find this place.”
Trisha turned around, heart hammering.
An old woman stood near the back of the Ash-house, tending to a cluster of golden roses. Her silver hair was pulled into a long braid, and she wore a simple dress, the color of fresh soil. Her eyes, a deep shade of green, twinkled with something between amusement and knowing.
Trisha swallowed. “Who are you?”
The woman wiped her hands on her apron, then straightened. “Someone who’s been waiting for you.”
Trisha frowned. “Me?”
The woman nodded. “It always calls to the right person. And this year, that’s you.”
Trisha’s gazed around the room. “What is this place?”
The woman smiled softly. “The heart of spring.” She gestured to the glowing plants. “Every town has one, though most people never find it. It’s where the season begins. Where the first blooms are nurtured before they reach the world.”
Trisha stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. “You mean… this Ash-house controls spring?”
The woman chuckled. “Not controls, you see, it guides.” She reached into a small bag tied around her waist and pulled out something small, something glowing.
A seed.
“And now,” the woman said, stepping forward, “it’s your turn.”
Trisha hesitated, then slowly reached out. The moment the seed touched her palm, warmth spread through her fingertips, like holding a cup of tea on a cold morning. The tiny seed glowed against her skin, filling her with a strange sense of belonging.
She looked up at the woman. “What do I do with it?”
“Plant it,” the woman said simply. “And you’ll see.”
Trisha glanced down at the seed, its glow reflecting in her wide eyes. When she looked up again, the woman was already walking toward the back of the Ash-house, her form fading into the shadows.
Trisha took a deep breath and turned, stepping out into the fading afternoon light. The warmth of the Ash-house lingered on her skin, the scent of blooming flowers still in her hair.
She had so many questions.
Why her? What would happen when she planted the seed? And why did it feel like she had just stepped into something far bigger than herself?
That night, she couldn’t sleep. The seed sat on her nightstand, glowing faintly in the darkness. She reached for it, rolling it between her fingers, feeling the quiet hum of its energy.
Then, just before dawn, she made a decision.
She grabbed a shovel from their store and walked to the edge of her backyard, where the ground was soft and rich. Kneeling down, she dug a small hole and placed the seed inside. As soon as she covered it with soil, something incredible happened.
The ground shivered.
A soft, golden light pulsed beneath her fingertips. Then, slowly, something began to grow.
A small green shoot pushed through the soil, stretching toward the sky. Leaves unfurled with silver light. Within moments, the tiny plant blossomed, revealing a single flower—its petals shifting between colors, just like the ones in the Ash-house.
Trisha’s breath hitched.
This was real.
She touched the petals gently, and for a moment, she swore she heard the wind whispering to her. Not with words, but with magic.
Spring had always been beautiful.
But this year, it was hers.
And that was the biggest surprise of all.
