Whispers In the Garden

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden hue over the slave estate's garden. It should have been a place of peace—rows of blooming flowers, the soft buzz of bees, the earthy scent of soil—but the truth was far from tranquil. Here, the garden was nothing more than a cage disguised in color.

Nicole knelt in the dirt, her hands covered in soil as she planted vibrant yellow marigolds in a long, winding row. The once-rich brown of her skin was now pale, her body thinner than it had ever been, and her movements slow. Her swollen belly ached, a dull pressure pressing into her back and hips from hours of kneeling.

She rubbed the side of her stomach gently, wincing slightly as the baby's shifted within her. "It's alright," she whispered, "just a little longer."

Nearby, Clarice was tending to a bed of lilacs, while Dixie trimmed thorny roses with a rusted pair of shears. Their hands moved on instinct—silent, focused, tired.