The Garden of Glass

On the edge of a desert stood a greenhouse made entirely of glass — transparent walls, transparent soil, transparent life. Inside, a woman named Selene tended to her fragile creations. The flowers glowed faintly, humming when the wind passed through them. They had no scent, no color — only music.

She wasn’t a botanist. She was a mourner. Each flower had been grown from a tear, shed for someone who had died. The desert was a graveyard, and her greenhouse was their afterlife.

One evening, a traveler arrived, searching for his lost wife. Selene handed him a crystal seed and said, “Plant your memory.” He did. Within moments, a small, trembling flower rose from the sand, its petals whispering a familiar lullaby. The man wept. But as dawn came, the flower cracked — and his face began to fade from the glass walls.

Selene watched, expressionless. “Every grief must be fed,” she murmured. “Or it feeds on you.”

When she disappeared years later, the greenhouse shattered. The desert bloomed for one night — and then turned to glass.