The Garden That Ate the Sun

There was a time when the village of Veradale basked in golden sunlight. It stretched across the hills like honey, warming the fields, blooming the tulips, and drying the linens hung from every humble porch. But that was before the garden came.

It started as nothing—just a patch of earth behind the long-abandoned Garrison estate. Locals had always whispered about the estate, calling it cursed. No one dared to live there. But in early spring, dark green sprouts pushed through the ground like veins on skin. They were thick, pulsing, almost breathing. A few boys tried to poke at the vines with sticks, only to come home the next day with strange rashes on their arms. The very next morning, the sun didn’t rise.

The sky was not overcast, nor stormy. It was simply... dark. A gray, endless twilight hung over Veradale. The townspeople waited for the clouds to break, but they never did. Days turned into weeks. Crops began to fail. Animals grew restless. The birds stopped singing.

And yet, behind the Garrison estate, the garden bloomed.

No sunlight touched Veradale anymore, but the garden didn’t need it. It grew wildly—roses the size of dinner plates, vines thick as tree trunks, flowers with petals that shimmered like moonlight. Some said the plants whispered if you stood too close. Others said they heard crying.

The town council sent a few men to cut the garden down. They never returned.

One of them, old Mr. Remy, was found three days later—his body wrapped in roots, his face twisted in terror, his eyes... burned. Not gouged, not scratched. Burned. As if he had looked directly into the sun—but no sun had shone for nearly a month.

It was 14-year-old Lyra who discovered the truth.

Her younger brother, Jacob, had disappeared chasing his dog into the garden. The townspeople begged Lyra not to go after him, but she refused. “If no one else will,” she said, tying a red scarf around her neck, “then I will.”

She stepped into the garden at twilight. The moment she passed its edge, warmth pressed against her skin. It was humid. Alive. The air shimmered with golden motes, like dust floating in liquid amber. She called for Jacob, but only the rustle of leaves answered. The plants turned as she moved. She could feel their attention.

She wandered deeper. Time felt strange—stretched. Twisted. A vine brushed her cheek like a lover’s touch. In its reflection, she saw something horrifying: herself, aged by decades, her face weathered, eyes hollow. She stepped back.

Then she heard it—a soft, familiar giggle. Jacob.

She followed the sound to a clearing where the sun still shone. Bright. Brilliant. Blinding. And in the center, sat Jacob—laughing, playing, bathed in golden light. She ran to him, but the ground shifted. Roots rose like snakes, wrapping around her ankles.

“You should not be here,” whispered a voice from the trees. It wasn’t a person. It was the garden.

“The sun,” Lyra gasped, staring into the radiance. “Why is it here?”

“It is mine now,” said the garden. “It feeds me. It loves me. The world beyond starves, but I bloom.”

“You’re killing us,” she cried. “You stole our light!”

“The sun was wasted on you,” it said. “You grew crops. I grow eternity.”

She looked at Jacob, smiling blankly, unmoving. “Let him go.”

“I cannot,” the garden replied. “He is part of the bloom now. He chose the light.”

“No,” Lyra said, pulling a matchstick from her pocket. She had brought it for warmth—maybe for protection. She struck it.

Fire bloomed.

The garden screamed.

The roots recoiled. The trees trembled. Jacob blinked, his eyes clearing. “Lyra?” he whispered.

She grabbed him, dragging him away as vines snapped and leaves turned black. The golden sun flared, then dimmed. As they ran, the light faded behind them, shrinking, curling in on itself like a dying star.

They emerged back into Veradale. The sky was still dark—but less so. A crack of sunlight pierced the horizon.

The next morning, the sun rose again.

The garden, now a patch of smoldering ash, never returned. But on quiet nights, if you walked past the Garrison estate, you could still smell flowers, and hear leaves rustling in the dark, as if waiting.

Waiting for the next one brave—or foolish—enough to bring them light.