ng Gardens loomed into view. Liam Thorne didn't curse; he merely leaned back against the cracked leather seat, a ghost of a smi

n through the open window was thick with humidity and the intoxicating, almost feral scent of decay and rampant growth – a symphony of life and slow reclamation. It was

ter of a Lagos cocktail party. His reputation as a landscape architect was built on his almost uncanny ability to coax beauty from chaos, to blend the wild with the refined, creating spaces that felt both natural and deeply intentional. But beneath the professional acc

d in his family for decades, felt less like a job and more like an unexpected, almost reluctant, plea from the past. His older brother, David, the current head of the Thorne family, had pushed for it relentlessl

avy silence. The gates, wrought iron and rusted into intricate, skeletal patterns, stood half-

path into perpetual twilight. Exotic flowering bushes, once meticulously arranged, now burst forth in wild profusion, their petals a riot of color against the dark green. He

n tragic, history. He remembered Lily's stories, her wide-eyed tales of secret paths and hidden springs, of plants that glowed in the dark and flowers that san

, the sounds of the distant city faded, replaced by the chirping of unseen insects, the rustle of leaves, and a soft, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to

dless arguments over native versus exotic species, the sanctity of wild growth versus controlled cultivation. His approach was intuitive, almost spiritual; hers

growth. This is where healing begins, he thought, not just for the garden, but for him. He just hoped his new partner, whoever she was, understood that some thin