Amiyah tiptoes into the moonlit garden and presses her whole palm flat against a closed bud, her breath fogging the cool stem. "Please open," she whispers. "I have a secret." The bud just sits there—tight, small, silver-lit.
Amiyah jiggles the stem, pokes it, boops it, even tickles the tiny leaves. "HEY, flowers! OPEN!" she calls, but the garden only creaks. She sits back on her heels, lip wobbling.
Amiyah squeezes her eyes shut and curls both fists tight at her sides. She whispers the wish one more time, really really soft: "I wish… you'd listen." A twig snaps somewhere behind her.
The moonlight stretches longer, reaching right to the tips of every bud. Then—a soft swish, like silk sliding across a table.
The biggest bud pops open like a tiny pinball, and one by one every flower unfurls in the silver glow, swaying slow like little dancers. One bounces extra high and taps her nose with a petal soft as a blanket corner.
She gasps, then grins so wide her cheeks scrunch. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. She wants to tell the flowers everything.
Amiyah presses her cheek to the softest petal and whispers her secret—how Mom hums the same little song and Dad's laughter sounds like rain on the roof. The flowers sway together, slow and gentle, like a hug made of green and gold.
The breeze hums low beneath her chin. She stays there, eyes closed, smiling small, while the moon holds still in the sky.