Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 100: The Gardens of Forgetting: The Doubt Beneath the Moss

Chapter 100: The Gardens of Forgetting: The Doubt Beneath the Moss

One morning, silently, in that floating calm that only exists at dawn, we came across a herd of Mossarians.

They were round, slow, peaceful creatures — like turtles without shells, but covered in thick moss, with small flowers silently blooming on their backs. Their steps were slow, almost hesitant, but wherever they passed, grass grew back instantly. Thicker. Greener. As if the world itself came back to life behind them.

Lysara stopped. She watched them for a long time, without speaking, eyes wide open — true. Then she approached a small one, the slowest of all. She crouched down, gently, without rushing, and held out a leaf. It sniffed it, took it between its lips, and then — without warning — nestled against her leg.

She looked down, frozen for a moment.

— I think he likes me... she murmured, not really believing it, as if it was a bit beyond her. She had that smile at the corner of her lips, discreet, surprised, a little fragile. It was beautiful.

— I think so too... I had replied, voice low, steady, almost too steady. Because I too had been moved. More than I wanted. But I hadn’t known how to say it otherwise.

That same evening, as the embers died slowly and silence settled around us like a warm blanket, a Voltalune came down near the fire.

It was a nocturnal bird, almost unreal. Its silhouette seemed made of water and shadow, fluid like a memory. Its feathers, fine as threads of night, caught the starlight and reflected it in silent bursts — as if the sky itself had chosen to take form and approach us.

It sang.

Long. Peacefully. Without fear.

And in that song, there was something soft, perhaps melancholic, like a promise you don’t quite understand but you just feel — there, in your throat.

Then it left. In silence. And behind it, a trail of luminous dust lingered in the air for a moment, suspended, before fading like a forgotten breath.

— It sings like you, when you dream. said Lysara, voice low, almost distracted.

I looked at her. Surprised.

— I dream?

She nodded. Without smiling, without looking away.

— You smile in your sleep. And sometimes you speak. Of Cassandre. Of a child. Of a garden.

I didn’t answer.

There was something in her words that didn’t ask for a reply. Just silence. Space.

Maybe, without knowing it, I was already somewhere else. Already building that future — in my own way, blindly, among the stones of a past I thought long gone.

But something still stuck with me, deep down. A quiet shadow. A feeling I was forgetting... something essential. Like a door left ajar behind me, without knowing what was on the other side.

Nights in Terra Neutralis were never truly dark.

When the sun vanished behind the glass mountains, the world didn’t fall into darkness — it transformed. Slowly. Silently. As if it held its breath before revealing itself another way.

The Watcher Trees awakened first. Their inner lanterns, hidden within the thick foliage, lit up little by little, casting a pearly, soft light that pulsed with the rhythm of a heart one couldn’t see but could feel — somewhere, beneath the earth, in the roots, in the air.

Then came the Vigilys. These serpentine vines, thin and supple, slid out of their hollows like timid arms. Their tips opened slowly, like thirsty floral mouths, and began to drink the dew suspended in the warm air. A sweet scent then spread, diffuse, almost imperceptible, but enough to ease the tension from one’s shoulders with a single breath.

In the ponds, the Moonscales danced.

Flat, diaphanous fish, almost unreal. They glided beneath the surface, and their bodies seemed made of liquid light. Every movement traced an ephemeral constellation. It was like watching an inverted sky — a sky beneath the water, shifting, intimate.

Sometimes, we stayed there.

For hours.

Lying side by side on the moss, unmoving, eyes lost in those never-repeating reflections.

I didn’t always speak. Silence suited me. It kept me company.

But she, now, spoke.

More and more. Without forcing. Without trying to fill anything. Like a gentle truth that had settled in.

And it was beautiful. To see her like that. To hear her take her place in the world, in her own way. In simple words. In slow phrases. In shared confidences, sometimes, like seeds she placed between us — without knowing if they would grow, but offering them anyway.

One evening, as the sky turned that deep blue that only Terra Neutralis knew how to weave, she asked me, without looking at me:

— Do you think places like this exist elsewhere?

Her voice had no urgency. It was a real question, asked like one offers a hand without knowing if someone will take it.

I remained silent for a moment.

Then I said, plainly:

— Not in this world. Maybe in the soul. Or in dreams.

She turned her head toward me.

Her eyes glowed softly, but it wasn’t the firelight, nor the stars.

— Can I dream too? she murmured, almost as if apologizing.

I nodded. Slowly. Then whispered to her:

— You already are.

And in my own voice, there was a crack, a very slight tremble I hadn’t expected. A trace of confusion passed through me — not toward her, no. Toward myself. Toward what that sentence had awakened without warning.

I didn’t know where it came from exactly. Nor why it rang so true.

So, without trying to understand further, I looked back at that paradise.

And the days slipped by.

Silently.

Without us holding them back.

Like a dream we kept living with our eyes open.

Another night, while she slept deeply, peacefully, I watched her.

The light from the Miracleleaves fell slowly around us — these strange, silent trees released their leaves each night like one lets secrets go. Each one glowed with a soft, almost shy shimmer, like a tiny star that had forgotten its place in the sky. They floated down noiselessly, spun for a moment, then went out upon touching the ground. It was like sleeping beneath a living galaxy. A rain of ephemeral universes.

She breathed calmly, her head resting against my arm, her eyelids still, her mouth slightly open — just enough to seem real, fragile, present.

And without really deciding to, without waiting for an answer, I whispered to her:

— You are my daughter. No matter the blood, the shape, the origin. You are my family.

She didn’t move.

But her fingers, until then relaxed against mine, closed slightly. The faintest pressure. Barely a shiver.

And in that gesture, simple, almost unconscious, I felt an answer. Something stronger than words.

I stayed there.

And I felt that, slowly, I was changing.

Not suddenly. Not like a revelation. But like a new breath settling gently within me.

I was more and more at peace with what I felt. I let love exist, without judging it, without hiding it. I was no longer afraid of being weak. No longer afraid of being tender. No longer afraid of being me.

And in that night full of light fallen from the sky, I felt, at last, a little more whole.

Other creatures crossed our path, as if the night itself, in this part of the world, had decided to entrust us with its calmest secrets.

Krelissus.

Strange beings, silent, made of wings and soft light — giant butterflies, without defined color, as if woven from the memory of a dream you can no longer name. They descended quietly from the heights, carried by a slowness that had nothing human about it. And sometimes, one of them would land on our shoulder, as if it had chosen. As if it knew.

They said they could sense the soul of travelers. That they never touched those who carried hatred, even hidden deep inside. I don’t know if that was true. But that night, they came to us.

They stayed a moment, motionless, almost weightless. Then, without us understanding what had called them, they left. Spiraling. In silence. Like a thought you let go without wanting to hold on.

And I stayed there, eyes lifted, unmoving.

With the strange feeling that the world had just given us something.

Something we hadn’t asked for.

But maybe, a little, deserved.

I had really done well to read everything I could about the species of this region. It was strange how knowledge, sometimes, could bring comfort. A reprieve. A way to walk more calmly. By understanding what surrounds us, we stop fearing all that we don’t yet know. And in a world like this, where each step can awaken a beast, a plant, a legend, it made a difference.

I found myself thinking that, if I hadn’t done that, if I had crossed this land with empty hands and a blind mind, I might have reacted with suspicion — or worse — with violence. Faced with the Krelissus, the Voltalunes, or the Mossarians, I might have defended myself where there was nothing to fear. I would have ruined it.

But as I thought about it, another idea struck me. Deeper. Less reassuring.

Should I not, after all... stay on my guard?

When had I decided it was safe to relax?

At what moment, exactly, had I agreed to lay down my weapons — even the ones inside — to lower that vigilance I wore like a second skin?

And why?

I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Maybe it had happened without me realizing. One gesture after another. A shared silence. A glance. A night without attack. A laugh from Lysara.

Maybe I had let myself drift. Slowly.

And somewhere within me, a voice whispered: this is good. This is right.

But another... quieter, older... still asked: is it safe?

And I didn’t have the answer.

Not yet.