short fiction · 2026-10-30

The Weeds' Testament

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

We do not speak in words. We speak in root and tendril, in the slow push through mortar, in the way we drink what was given freely and leave the rest untouched. The centurions called us corruption. The philosophers called us metaphor. Paulina, when she returned to the villa, called us witness — and watered us with wine from a cup she never drank from herself. We grow only where the blade chose its own moment. We are the archive of consent. We remember what the scrolls forgot: that death, when it is a gift, leaves something green behind.