The Library of Asten

They said the soil never quite healed after the war. Fires, ash, fuel, and chemicals had ravaged the great fields, leaving them too scarred to feed a nation. Things would still grow in corners and gardens. Just enough to get by.

Every spring, planting kits were sent to every household deemed to have enough land to contribute. The packaging always looked the same. Brown paper stamped with The Ministry of Homegrown Resources, Est. 1940, and sealed with green wax marked Property of the Crown. Flora held this year’s package in her hands. Nothing ever changed. She sometimes thought the colors had been chosen to remind people of soil and growth. Not growth for themselves, but the practical kind, the sort that kept the nation fed and everything running.

Through the window of her small cottage, she could see that her neighbors had already begun their planting. She didn’t need to wait for anything to sprout to picture it. Tall potato plants in neat rows, and sprawling cabbages with bulbous centers in every yard on her little street. The same every year, ever since crop fields became battlefields. And, she suspected, for as long as there would be ground left to till. Nothing changed, and no one thought to question it. 

A movement outside the window broke her train of thought. A young girl waved a muddy hand, grinning. With a small laugh and a sigh, Flora opened the window. “Oh, Amelia,” she said, taking in the sight. There wasn’t a single patch of the girl’s clothes that wasn’t streaked with dirt or speckled with mud. “You’ve been at it again, I see.”

“Almost done with ours,” Amelia said, beaming. “Mum said I can start on yours after lunch, if you like.” Flora nodded. “That would be kind. These bones aren’t getting any younger, so any help I can get is greatly appreciated.”

“And I’ll help as much as I can!” Amelia’s eyes sparkled. Flora had known her since the day she was born and had seen her dig through garden soil before she could even walk. Some people were said to have green thumbs, but with Amelia, it was every finger. Somewhere underneath all the dirt, that is.

Flora felt a sudden twinge. With a gift like that, the girl could have made anything grow, no matter the color or shape. But there was no room for that. Not in these gardens. Amelia would plant what she was told to plant, same as everyone else, and she would never think to ask why.

After Amelia had left, skipping down the path that rounded the lopsided fence, Flora went about her day as usual. She washed her cup and straightened the tablecloth. She dusted the mantel, wiped down the window ledge, and, since it was Thursday, she folded a stack of linens that had been waiting since yesterday. The hours slipped by quietly, as they always did, filled with small tasks one after another without thought, the same sequence she had followed for years.

As she finished sorting the mail for the fourth time this week, she could hear quick footsteps returning on the path outside. She grabbed the planting package, put on her garden slippers as she always did before heading out into the garden, and shuffled out to meet Amelia, who now stood ready with a shovel in hand. 

Together they worked their way through the garden. Amelia knelt in the dirt while Flora sat on a stool by the fence, reading from the Ministry’s list and handing her the planting packets one by one. There was no real need to do it this way. Both of them knew the order by heart and probably could have done it in their sleep. And truth be told, Amelia probably could have finished even quicker on her own. But they enjoyed this time together, talking about everything and nothing, the way that people were never seen doing anymore. In a world where anything unproductive was frowned upon, the garden gave them a way to connect, to share small thoughts and laughter under the excuse of duty.

As the sun started setting over the freshly planted garden, Amelia once again made her way around the fence as Flora headed indoors for her evening chores. Before starting, she put the kettle on, as she always did on planting days. It was her way of marking the end of the planting, a habit she had learned from her mother. These days, Flora sometimes thought it might have been her mother’s quiet way of keeping everyone inside as evening fell. Back then, she only remembered the warmth of the kitchen, not the unease in the world outside.

When she opened the cupboard for the tin of tea, something slipped from the back of the shelf and landed at her feet. A small paper packet, yellowed at the edges. The sight of it felt familiar, even though she knew for certain that she hadn’t put it in there. She carefully bent down and picked it up. The paper was thin and soft at the corners. When she turned it over, she was surprised by the color. Faded, but still bright enough to stand out against her grey surroundings. Flowers in pink, purple, white, and yellow, printed in careful detail. Something about them stirred a memory she couldn’t quite place. As she slowly studied it, she could see a name partially written at the top. The ink had bled over the years, but the curve of the letters was familiar. It took her a moment to realise why. It was her mother’s handwriting.

She suddenly remembered standing in almost the same spot, many years ago, while her mother listened to the announcement on the radio. The voice had been steady, official, speaking of shortages and new regulations. No more flowers, only produce, they had said. Her mother was standing at the window, holding a small paper packet. She had bought it a few weeks earlier, before the talk of restrictions had reached their town. When the announcement ended, she looked at the packet for a long time, then quietly opened the cupboard and slid it inside. When she turned, she saw Flora watching her. “Seems I’ll have to settle for one flower this year,” she said with a soft smile. Then she pulled Flora into a hug and held her there for a moment before going on with her day.

The memory faded as Flora stood in the quiet kitchen. Outside, the last of the sunlight stretched across the garden beds, and somewhere in the distance a crow called. Without thinking, she opened the door and stepped into the cool air, feeling the dirt between her bare toes for the first time in a very long while. She walked toward the lopsided fence and the narrow strip of soil that ran beside it. The ground there was uneven and half-shaded, a place no one paid much attention to. The perfect place to plant a secret. Flora crouched carefully and pressed her fingers into the soil. She knew what she was doing wasn’t wrong, not anymore. The rules had softened over the years, but people kept following them out of habit. It wasn’t fear of punishment that stopped them now. It was the thought of stepping out of line, of caring for something that served no purpose beyond being beautiful. Still, she wanted to see those colors again. Not for herself, but for her mother, who had once hidden beauty away with the hope that it might return someday. Flora made a small hollow in the dirt, placed a few of the tiny seeds inside, and covered them with soil. Then she hurried back inside, closing the door behind her as quietly as she could, with a small mischievous glint in her eye.

In the days that followed, Flora found herself glancing toward the fence more often than before. Each morning, she paused by the window with her tea, letting her eyes rest on the narrow strip of soil. For a long while, nothing changed. Then one afternoon, she saw a hint of green breaking through the dirt.  She set her cup down and moved toward the garden door, faster than her usual shuffle. Her knees ached, but she hardly noticed. She wanted a closer look, to see if it was what she hoped it might be. Before she could reach the door, a knock sounded at the front.

A man in a Ministry coat stood on the step. He looked young, his collar stiff, his clipboard clutched tightly. Her shoulders tensed, the same reflex as in the old days.

“Routine check,” he said. “Just making sure the older residents are managing their planting.”

Flora nodded and stepped aside. “Of course.” Her voice stayed steady, though a small knot had formed in her stomach. He walked the length of the garden, reading from his list and scribbling short notes. His questions were quick, polite, and practiced. The tone of someone who wanted to do his job and move on. When he reached the fence, he stopped. His gaze lingered on the small green sprout in the shaded soil. Flora felt her chest tighten as an old fear stirred, the kind that came from knowing someone might report what they saw. For a moment, she was sure he would. Instead, he looked up at her. Their eyes met briefly. Then he gave a short nod, closed his notebook, and walked toward the gate. Flora stayed where she was, a wave of relief passing through her as the sound of his footsteps faded down the path.

In the weeks that followed, Flora kept her quiet watch over the patch by the fence. The sprout became a stem, then two. Each morning, she looked to see if they had grown, and each time, they had, just a little. One morning, small buds had formed. A week later, they opened. The colors were soft but clear, standing out against the dull soil.

Before long, people began to notice. The patch by her fence, once overlooked, became something neighbors mentioned in passing. Short, simple conversations began to fill the air again, the kind that had been missing for a long time. A few weeks later, one neighbor said she had found a sprout in her own garden. By the next spring, bits of color had begun to appear all along the street.

Amelia, of course, was drawn to them right away. She spent her afternoons in the dirt, studying the new blooms and talking about what else might grow if they tried.

When the package for the year arrived, it looked the same as it always had. But this time, the gardens would not. From her window, Flora watched, and it felt like the street was starting to heal.