Theater: NovelMaster | Language: English
Synopsis
After almost drowning once, I started hearing plants talk.
Ever since, weeding sounded like a slaughterhouse, and pruning branches felt like watching an amputation.
Yet because of it, I fell head over heels for all things green, spending every waking moment surrounded by flora.
After graduating with a degree in horticulture, I landed a job at the prestigious state botanical garden.
On my very first day, the head master arborist decided to cut down a hundred-and-twenty-year-old heirloom tea tree in the conservatory.
He let out a heavy sigh. "It's completely dried up and dead. Rip it out and replace it."
The groundskeepers grabbed their saws and chainsaws, but a furious roar blasted straight into my brain.
*"Who's dead?! I'm just exhausted, damn it! I wanted to nap for a year!"*
*"Hey! Get that chainsaw away from me! Piss off!"*
I hesitated for a second, then stepped forward anyway.
"Let me try. I can bring it back to life."
My voice sounded thin and fragile across the open nursery.
The master arborist, Marcus Vance, lifted his eyelids, his gaze behind his wire-rimmed glasses cold as winter well water.
"You?"
He looked me up and down, from head to toe. I knew that look all too well—it was like a grocer eyeing a wilted head of lettuce on clearance.
"You're the new hire this year? What was your name again?"
"Chloe Shen."
"Where did you graduate from?"
"State Forestry University, Landscape Horticulture."
"State Forestry?"
He scoffed, tossing his pruning shears onto the metal workbench with a harsh clatter. "Bachelor's or Master's?"
"Bachelor's."
"Bachelor's," he repeated, not bothering to hide the thick condescension in his voice—sour and sharp like aged vinegar.
The surrounding groundskeepers exchanged glances.
A middle-aged woman wearing a sun hat covered her mouth, her shoulders trembling with stifled laughter.
Marcus unhurriedly pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, but didn't light it.
"Little girl, this heritage tea tree has lived for a hundred and twenty years. I've worked in this garden for thirty-eight years, rising from an apprentice all the way to chief director. I've handled thousands of heritage trees."
He patted the cracked, rough bark of the trunk, as casually as one would pat a dead fish.
"Its nutrient transport stopped last fall. The root system has rotted, the cambium layer is parched, and the xylem is completely desiccated. To put it plainly, it's dead as a doornail. And you, a fresh college graduate, are telling me you can revive it?"
Without waiting for my answer, he shook his head with mock pity.
"Youthful passion is great, but don't confuse passion with actual skill. This isn't one of your college term papers where you can fudge a few numbers and call it a day."
A few groundskeepers snickered out loud.
I balled my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.
The tea tree's furious bellow was still ringing in my ears.
*"Tell him to get his dirty paws off me! What's he groping around for! Does he think my bark is free for him to touch?!"*
*"Hey girl, don't just stand there! Chase away these bastards with the chainsaws! I'm telling you, I just bore over four hundred pounds of tea seeds last year and burned myself out! I just want a one-year break, and by next spring I swear I'll be bursting with lush green shoots for you!"*
I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and met Marcus's gaze directly.
"Director Vance, I respect your diagnosis, but I genuinely have a method to revive it."
"Oh? Pray tell, what method?"
He crossed his arms, settling in like he was watching a circus clown perform.
I couldn't say it was because the tree told me it was merely tired.
Saying that out loud would get me exactly one thing: an involuntary psych ward hold.
"I need to inspect the root condition, balance the soil's pH, and adjust the trace mineral profile. Its cambium layer might still retain viability—it could just be in deep dormancy."
I made it up on the fly, blending seventy percent science with thirty percent intuition.
Marcus clearly hadn't expected such a technical response. His eyebrow twitched slightly.
Still, he quickly slipped back into his condescending smirk.
"Deep dormancy? Ha! I've been doing plant diagnostics for thirty-eight years. You think I can't tell the difference between dormancy and death?"
He tapped his unlit cigarette, as if flicking invisible dust off himself.
"Fine. Since you're so confident, I'll give you a shot."
He pointed at the massive tree.
"Revive it. If you succeed, I, Marcus Vance, will bow and apologize to you in front of the entire staff. But if you fail—"
His voice suddenly dropped, heavy as a boulder splashing into mud.
"You write your resignation letter, pack your crap, and get lost. I have no room for arrogant half-wits on my payroll."The air around us seemed to freeze.
The groundskeepers looked at each other in shock. The woman in the sun hat stopped laughing, nudging the coworker beside her while muttering under her breath.
I knew what Marcus was thinking.
A hundred-and-twenty-year-old heirloom tea tree sentenced to death, beyond the salvation of even the chief director—what business did a rookie like me have thinking I could save it?
Too bad he miscalculated one crucial thing.
I could hear the tree speak.
"Deal," I said.
My voice sounded steadier than I expected.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, a barely perceptible sneer tugging at his lips. He waved his hand dismissively at the crew.
"Alright, show's over, back to work. Let's see what our star graduate can do."
As the crowd dispersed, a few threw glances over their shoulders.
Pity, schadenfreude, sheer morbid curiosity.
Not a single person believed I had a chance.
I squatted down and pressed my palm against the rough, flaking bark at the base of the trunk.
"Sir, be real with me. What's going on with you?"
The tree fell silent for two beats. Then, a long, weary sigh filled my mind.
*"Ah, kiddo... you're the first one to ask me how I'm actually doing."*
*"Last fall, I squeezed out over four hundred pounds of tea seed pods. I drained my reserves down to the last drop. Once winter set in, I just wanted to rest. I pulled all my moisture and nutrients down into my roots and shed my leaves."*
*"Who knew these idiots would see bare branches and declare me dead! They started pumping me full of harsh chemicals and digging around my root ball, torturing the hell out of me!"*
"What do you need right now?" I asked mentally.
*"Stop them from messing with me! Flush out all that toxic crap they poured into my dirt, give me some clean organic compost, and let me catch my breath! Three months. Give me three months tops, and I promise you new green shoots."*
Three months.
Marcus had given me seven days.
Next week, state botanical inspectors and local government officials were scheduled for a high-profile inspection tour. This heritage tea tree was the crown jewel of the pavilion; leaving a dead centerpiece on display looked terrible on their record.
In seven days, it either sprouted or got turned into firewood.
"Three months is too long," I whispered. "Can you speed it up?"
*"Speed it up?! What do you think I am, a stalk of spring onions?!"*
The tree grumbled testily. *"Listen here, girl, plants have natural rules! Nagging won't make the sun rise faster!"*
"Let me help you supercharge your recovery, but you have to work with me."
*"Fine, fine, do your thing. Old man's betting on you once."*
For the next three days, I practically moved into the nursery.
By day, I did my standard shifts with the crew, sprinting over to the tree whenever I caught a break.
By night, I stayed until eleven under the harsh yellow work lights, reviewing soil test charts and mixing organic nutrient broths.
I completely leached out the industrial fungicides and synthetic rooting hormones Marcus's crew had previously dumped into the soil.
Those chemical cocktails hadn't done jack; instead, they had scorched the soil's natural microbiome. It was like taking a bedridden patient and soaking them in industrial bleach for three days straight.
Then, I blended a fresh custom substrate of aged leaf mold, pine needles, and bone meal, trenching it gently around the drip line of the outer root system.
Finally, I wrapped the main trunk in moist sphagnum moss to seal in humidity and protect the cambium.
On paper, these were solid, orthodox horticultural techniques. Any college graduate could pitch them.
Yet only I knew what the tea tree truly craved.
Quiet.
*"Keep those morons away from my roots!"* the tree grumbled at least eight hundred times a day. *"That kid with the glasses came over yesterday and poked my bark again. It tickled like hell!"*On the evening of day three, Marcus walked in with a small entourage.
He circled the tree, digging his fingernails into the damp sphagnum moss on the trunk, his brow furrowing deeply.
"What's this circus trick? Putting a winter coat on a corpse?"
"Moisture retention. To prevent the cambium from desiccating further."
"Pointless," he scoffed, brushing debris off his hands. "The cambium is already dead. Moisturizing dead tissue does nothing."
I didn't argue.
Arguing with someone like him was useless; results were the only language he understood.
He turned to walk away, then paused as if remembering something.
"Right, Chloe, isn't it? I hear you've been staying late in the nursery every night."
"Yes, sir."
"I get that young people want to prove themselves, but don't act like you're the only dedicated worker in this facility."
His voice was just loud enough to carry across the greenhouse.
"Lurking around here until midnight makes your coworkers look bad. It creates unnecessary pressure. This is a workplace, not college. Stop pulling performative overtime."
I froze, a flare of indignation rising in my throat.
I stayed late because the tree's metabolic night cycle was the best window for foliar nutrient absorption. What did that have to do with "performative overtime"?
Before I could open my mouth, he was already striding off, leaving the other crew members staring at me with strange, judging looks.
Brenda, the woman in the sun hat, sauntered over, dripping with patronizing concern.
"Oh, Chloe, sweetie, don't take Director Vance's words to heart. His bark is worse than his bite. Just keep your head down and do your job. Don't take things so seriously."
She patted my shoulder, her smile sweet as artificial sweetener.
I couldn't hear her inner thoughts—she wasn't a plant.
But the second she walked away, the old tea tree ratted her out.
*"That fake witch told the guy next to her that you're totally unhinged. She said you're a lunatic trying to revive firewood, and she can't wait to watch you burn."*
*"Oh, and she added another little gem: 'Word is she got hired through nepotism—her resume didn't even have a decent internship on it.'"*
I crouched beside the trunk, clutching the plastic measuring cylinder until my knuckles turned white.
Nepotism?
I passed the state civil service and public garden recruitment exams legitimately, scoring top three in both written and practical tests!
Who the hell cooked up that rumor?
Yet beyond the anger, an icy sense of isolation settled over me.
In this entire botanical garden, not a single person had my back.
*"Kiddo, ignore that flock of clowns,"* the tree rumbled in a gruff, comforting tone. *"I've lived through a hundred and twenty years. I've seen it all. Back during the wars, enemy soldiers hacked a chunk out of my trunk with an ax, and I didn't even shed a tear. You think these pests can take me down?"*
A dry laugh escaped me. I gently patted the trunk.
"Thanks, old friend."
*"Don't thank me yet! Just save my life first!"*
Dawn on the fourth day.
I arrived at the nursery as usual, but from a distance, I spotted a crowd gathered around the tree, whispering frantically.
As I rushed closer, my heart sank into my stomach.
The moist sphagnum wrap around the trunk had been ripped to shreds. The newly trenched organic soil was gouged out into a jagged crater, and my nutrient concentrate bottle lay kicked on its side, liquid soaking wasted into the dirt.
"What happened?!" I gasped, panic bleeding through.
Brenda stood right beside it, throwing her hands up in exaggerated innocence.
"It was like this when we clocked in! Probably stray raccoons or feral cats. We get plenty of pests around the nursery, you know that."
Feral cats.
Right. Feral cats who possessed the surgical dexterity to tear away moss wraps, dig precisely along the root line, and kick over targeted nutrient bottles?
The tea tree's voice exploded in my skull like thunder.
*"BULLSHIT! It was that sun-hat bitch! She came in around two in the morning with a hand spade, tore at my roots, and dumped that stinking chemical junk back over me! Kiddo, don't let her get away with this!"*
I snapped my head toward Brenda.
She was still smiling—warm, smooth, and fake as a plastic flower.
"Brenda," I kept my voice dead level, "it was you, wasn't it?"
Chapters (3)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Watch & Promotions
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