The Garden of Silences

Long ago, in a village forgotten by maps, there lived an old man known as the Mute. No one knew where he came from or why he never spoke. Some said he had lost his voice in a storm; others whispered that he had simply never needed words.

But his garden spoke for him.

One autumn morning, as the mist danced between the trees, a little girl named Lila climbed over the stone wall that enclosed the forbidden domain. Her heart pounded. No one had ever dared enter before.

She landed on a carpet of damp grass and looked up. Before her stretched a field of towering sunflowers, their golden heads seemingly carrying the sky on their shoulders. Further away, in the cool shade of a fig tree, the Mute watched her. He did not move.

Lila bit into a stolen apple and raised an eyebrow.

— “Why don’t you ever speak?” she asked.

The old man did not reply. Instead, he gently touched a wilted petal.

At that moment, a butterfly emerged. It lifted off from the dying flower as if it had just been born under the girl’s eyes. Lila stopped chewing. For the first time, she had nothing to say.

From then on, she kept coming back. And with each visit, the garden taught her a lesson.

One day, impatient, she demanded a rose. The Mute led her to a rosebush and carefully dug into the soil. Beneath their feet, twisted and deep, the roots stretched out.

They were ten years old.

Lila frowned. She understood that some things take time to become beautiful.

Then winter arrived. The flowers vanished under the bite of the cold, and Lila wept for their absence. The Mute knelt beside her and pulled a seed from his pocket.

— “What’s the point?” she sobbed.

He did not answer.

The earth always keeps a secret for spring.

One day, as she played near the great oak, a distant melody caught her ear. A soft tune, like a song from another world.

She wanted to run toward the sound, but the Mute stopped her with a gesture. Wait.

Lila closed her eyes.

And then, she heard it—the wind whispering stories, the leaves murmuring, the roots humming an ancient tune. Everything had always been there. She just needed to be silent to listen.

The seasons passed. Lila grew up.

One morning, she returned to the garden and found the Mute resting under his fig tree. But this time, he did not wake up.

She took his cold hand. He opened his lips one last time and murmured:

— “Your name is written in the garden.”

Then he was gone.

Shaken, Lila dug into the soil with her bare hands. Her fingers touched a stone, carved with words. She blew away the dust and read:

“My granddaughter…”

The wind rose, lifting the faded petals like words finally set free.

Decades later, an old woman sat on a bench in the garden. Her back was hunched, but her eyes still sparkled.

The sunflowers leaned gently toward her, as if listening.

Nearby, children ran and laughed.

Lila smiled. She now knew that the greatest truths grow in silence.

The wind blew.

And somewhere, between the roots and the leaves, another story was already beginning to bloom.