Entry 2 — Margaret’s Garden

 

Journal of Isla Loren — March 18

 

Location: white house above the Aiglin Sea

Weather: Dew on the windowpanes, pale light, hush before the wind

Notes: Old roots, strange blooms, and the town that keeps its mouth shut

Time: 9:04 a.m.

 

 

~

 

 

I didn’t sleep much after the mirror smiled. I kept the lamp on, notebook beside the bed. 

 

Last night, I slept with the window open, trying to prove something to myself. Maybe that I’m not afraid. Maybe that I still believe this is my home.

 

I still woke with soil under my nails.

 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

 

~

 

 

A few years ago, I left home for college, studied graphic design, then picked up a job in a quiet little firm near the coast. It was fine. Not thrilling, but enough. 

 

I saved everything. Still had the same dented Toyota from college, still thrifted everything from furniture to teacups.

 

And I kept my eye on the house.

 

It was still occupied by Margaret and Thomas then. I met them by accident, or so I’d made it seem. Truth was, I drove out there under the guise of a weekend drive, parked nearby, and struck up conversation when I saw them tending their front garden.

 

Margaret loved to talk about her roses.

 

“This one’s called Lady of Shalott…” she’d said, touching the bloom like it was a delicate secret. “I used to write poetry, you know. Before my hands went stiff.”

 

“I’d love to read one,” I said. And I meant it.

 

~
 

 

We became something like friends. I’d bring her lemon biscuits from a bakery in town. She’d let me perch on her porch with a book, while Button, her cinnamon-green lovebird, chirped from his cage by the window.

 

“Button only sings for people he likes,” she told me once, watching him bob his head toward me.

 

“I feel honored,” I laughed...

 

~
 

 

They told me they were thinking of downsizing. The stairs were hard on Thomas’s knees. Their son lived far away. 

 

“We want something simpler,” Margaret said, one breezy afternoon. “But it’s hard to let go of a place after forty years. This was our beginning.”

 

When the house finally went up for sale, I made an offer that same week. I had the savings. The bank said yes. It felt like I’d won something—not just the house, but a version of the future... I had dared hope for.

 

 

~

 

 

I planted sweet peas and marigolds in the front garden. Hung collages on the walls. Lined the bookshelf with old novels, some with cracked spines and Margaret's penciled-in notes.

 

The solitude felt earned.
 

~
 

Weekends were spent sculpting on the porch, watching the sea mist roll in like breath. I’d sometimes imagine Button fluttering nearby, or Margaret’s voice drifting through the hedges.

 

 

~

 

But that day—I needed to get out.

 

Maybe I was running from the mirror. Or the note.

 

Or myself.

 

The town was the kind that pretends not to look at you. You walk past the post office and someone glances up through lace curtains. The café has a chalkboard menu, but no one bothers to change it. The grocery store plays music from twenty years ago, and all the carts squeak.

 

I needed groceries, but I walked right past the shop. My feet knew where they were going before I did.

 

A job board at the library was nearly empty. One ad for a part-time shop assistant. Two ads for babysitting. One handwritten card that said “Handyperson wanted. Discreet.” and no contact info—just a PO box.

 

I added it to my pocket. Just in case.

 

Then I walked to the bakery. My old haunt. The bell above the door jingled as I pushed it open. 

 

“You’re her girl,” said the baker—a new one, square-shouldered with sea-weathered skin. Not the man I remembered behind the counter. But he said it like...he’d been expecting me.

 

“Her?”

 

“Margaret. She used to sit out front and make the pigeons nervous.”

 

I smiled with him. “I bought the house.”

 

“So you’re the one.”

 

He didn’t say what that meant. Just offered me a lemon biscuit, on the house.

 

~
 

 

By the time I got back home, the sky had shifted. 

 

Wind pushed clouds like they were arguments waiting to happen.

 

I unloaded groceries. Checked the mirror in the hallway. Still tilted. Still wrong. 

 

But I didn’t fix it. 

 

Not yet. 

 

I keep a pink lighter by the stove for candles. I reached for it. 

 

But it was gone. 

 

I stood there a second longer than I should have. 

 

I told myself I must’ve misplaced it.

 

 

~

 

 

I decided to clear the front garden—Margaret’s old domain. The earth was soft from mist. I tugged at weeds, checked on the marigolds, uncovered a section of soil that seemed oddly flat.
 

Like something had been buried and smoothed over.

 

Curious, I dug. Just a few inches.

 

And I found them.

 

Her roses. Clipped at the stem. Dried but intact, as if someone had buried them just days before. Their petals were curled, but still salmon-pink. Beneath them, a folded piece of fabric—linen, embroidered with initials. M. H.

 

Margaret’s maiden name was Holloway.

 

The linen was wrapped around something small. I unwrapped it.

 

A wishbone.

 

Not from a chicken. Too long. Too slender.

 

I stared at it, heart hammering, and suddenly I could hear her voice again—

 

“This one’s called Lady of Shalott. I used to write poetry, you know.”

 

And then, as I sat back in the dirt, the wind picked up.
 

The marigolds shivered.
 

And the wind chimes near the porch gave one sharp, clear note.

 

Just one.

 

Like something had woken up.

 

~
 

 

I brought the fabric and the bone inside.

 

I shouldn’t have. 

 

 

~

 

 

I’ll write more tomorrow. In the meantime... I hope nothing else goes missing.

 

 

—Isla

 

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Photo by anotherxlife on Unsplash ( Free to use under the Unsplash License) 

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This is part of the Journal of Isla Loren series, The Saltwind Archives. 

• Read from the beginning: Entry 1 — The Mug
• Next Entry: Entry 3 – The Box
• Full collection here