Romance Weekly - Short Stories of Love, Erotic and Paranormal Thrillers
May 31, 2026 · 18 min · 17 segments
May Day is everything it should be—the garden showing off, visitors enchanted, flowers blooming on command. Daphne moves through it glowing, literally, the empathy and the celebration merging into…
May Day dawns perfect.
I know this before I open my eyes.
The garden tells me a wave of satisfaction rolling through my awareness like a cat stretching in sunlight.
Everything is ready.
Everything is blooming.
The property has been preparing for this day since before I arrived, and now it's finally time to show off.
Matt is beside me when I wake up.
This is still new enough to feel miraculous, his warmth, his weight, the way his arm tightens around my waist when I stir.
We've spent the last six days learning each other, stealing moments between festival prep, discovering exactly how enthusiastic the garden gets when we're together.
"Morning," he murmurs into my hair.
"The garden is excited." "The garden has been excited since four AM." "I had to tell the roses to calm down or they were going to peak before the guests even arrived." "You can tell the roses things?" "I've been here three years.
We have an understanding." He presses a kiss to my shoulder, and somewhere outside, a flower blooms.
"How are you feeling?" I take inventory.
The empathy is stronger than ever.
I can feel every plant on the property, from the ancient oaks to the newest seedlings, all of them vibrating with anticipation, but it doesn't overwhelm me anymore.
It feels like being part of something larger, like my heartbeat has synced with the garden's pulse.
"Ready," I say.
"I think I'm actually ready." "Then let's go make Vera proud." The festival is magic, not metaphorically, actual magic, the kind that happens when a sentient garden decides to put on a show.
Flowers open as visitors walk past, timing their blooms for maximum impact.
The roses arrange themselves into gradients of color that shouldn't be possible.
The vegetables in the kitchen garden swell visibly, ripening on the vine as children watch with wide eyes.
I move through it all feeling like I'm glowing, and maybe I am.
The empathy works both ways now.
The garden responds to my emotions, but I respond to the gardens too.
When a little girl laughs with delight at a sunflower bending to greet her, I feel that joy in my chest.
May Day dawns perfect.
I know this before I open my eyes.
The garden tells me a wave of satisfaction rolling through my awareness like a cat stretching in sunlight.
Everything is ready.
Everything is blooming.
The property has been preparing for this day since before I arrived, and now it's finally time to show off.
Matt is beside me when I wake up.
This is still new enough to feel miraculous, his warmth, his weight, the way his arm tightens around my waist when I stir.
We've spent the last six days learning each other, stealing moments between festival prep, discovering exactly how enthusiastic the garden gets when we're together.
"Morning," he murmurs into my hair.
"The garden is excited." "The garden has been excited since four AM." "I had to tell the roses to calm down or they were going to peak before the guests even arrived." "You can tell the roses things?" "I've been here three years.
We have an understanding." He presses a kiss to my shoulder, and somewhere outside, a flower blooms.
"How are you feeling?" I take inventory.
The empathy is stronger than ever.
I can feel every plant on the property, from the ancient oaks to the newest seedlings, all of them vibrating with anticipation, but it doesn't overwhelm me anymore.
It feels like being part of something larger, like my heartbeat has synced with the garden's pulse.
"Ready," I say.
"I think I'm actually ready." "Then let's go make Vera proud." The festival is magic, not metaphorically, actual magic, the kind that happens when a sentient garden decides to put on a show.
Flowers open as visitors walk past, timing their blooms for maximum impact.
The roses arrange themselves into gradients of color that shouldn't be possible.
The vegetables in the kitchen garden swell visibly, ripening on the vine as children watch with wide eyes.
I move through it all feeling like I'm glowing, and maybe I am.
The empathy works both ways now.
The garden responds to my emotions, but I respond to the gardens too.
When a little girl laughs with delight at a sunflower bending to greet her, I feel that joy in my chest.
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