There once was a woman who tended a beautiful
garden on the edge of a village.
She grew wildflowers and jasmine, hardy herbs and delicate roses — all thriving
because she gave them her care, her water, and her warmth.
People often passed through the gate — some with
kind hands, others only with empty baskets.
But still, she welcomed them. She believed in kindness.
Even when they stepped on the seedlings.
Even when they promised to return with seeds, but never did.
Even when they whispered things to the neighbors like,
“Don’t bother her too much… or she’ll retreat again to the sea.”
She smiled through it all.
She let it go.
She said yes when she could’ve said not today.
She carried the basket when others said, “Oh — I thought you didn’t mind.”
And yet, one day, something shifted.
She noticed how familiar the footprints were
on her softest soil.
She noticed how some returned only when it was time for harvest.
She noticed how laughter, once shared, began to feel like shadows cast too
close to her roots.
Then came the final bloom — an out-of-season
flower, bright and loud, growing not from her planting…
but from something taken.
A gate swung open behind her back.
A path was cleared without her knowing.
And two wandered off with the tools she had sharpened,
Leaving her to tend the weeds alone.
Still, she did not shout.
She did not curse the soil.
Instead, she stepped back, wiped her hands, and quietly began building a new
gate —
Not locked, but selective.
Not hostile, but aware.
From then on, she watered less where nothing
grew.
She spoke less where her words were harvested, not heard.
She tended her garden with intention — not out of duty, but choice.
And those who still came, now paused at the
entrance.
They knocked.
They waited.
And only those with open palms — not baskets — were let in.
Because she learned:
Not all who smile under the sun come for warmth.
Some only come for shade.
And still — her garden grows.
Wiser.
Quieter.
But ever in bloom.
