By Allison Cross

Mira was sorting through her dead husband’s belongings when she found the package of seeds. The envelope was sealed twice with tape, unmarked. Her husband had never cared for plants, yet there they were.

She dug a hole in the backyard, dumped the seeds in. Just to see.

By morning, shoots pushed through the earth, sudden and jarring. Within days, they were as tall as sunflowers. Blossoms the size of her hand, soft pink with petals veined red. Unfurling like parted lips, she thought. Unfinished screams.

The whispers were soft at first, a breeze through leaves. But when she closed her eyes and paid attention, she heard words only she and her husband had shared. His voice, woven through the rustle, whispered forgotten arguments, shared secrets. Dreams for the future. Fears.

Mira couldn’t stay away. She listened to his voice for hours, blossomed faces above her head. Every day, new petals unfolded to reveal more. She heard him muttering in his sleep, speaking to himself, confessing truths once disguised as lies.

And then—words she had never heard.

It was a mistake. 

I never told her. 

She doesn’t know the truth.

Every syllable fed the knot growing in Mira’s chest. Tangled roots threaded through her, thick black veins. She jumped to her feet, tore at the plants, ripped them, screaming, from the earth. But the roots clung, coiling with an iridescent shimmer, deceptive in their allure.

With kerosene from the garage, Mira burned them away. The air filled with ashes and echoes and his voice faded.

But buried under her skin, the questions remained.

*   *   *

Allison Cross spent twenty years as an international fashion model before transitioning to a career in complementary and integrative medicine, specializing in palliative care. As a writer, her short stories and essays have appeared in Thieving Magpie, Green Hills Literary Lantern, and The Penman Review. She was also honored with an award in the Writer’s Digest Annual Writing Competition (2024).