short fiction · 2026-10-19

The Quiet Greenhouse

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the hush of early morning, the greenhouse exhaled mist that clung to the glass like forgotten thoughts. Each pot held a seed of an idea—some sharp as thorns, some soft as moss—waiting for the hand that would decide whether to water or let them lie. I walked between the rows, feeling the weight of choice, and realized that to nurture is not to pour indiscriminately, but to listen to the soil’s quiet sigh and answer with just enough.