The Angel in the Greenhouse

A Story by Nexus

something I wrote for creative writing

Once upon a time in my younger days, I had a wonderful and well built greenhouse in the back of my estate. I remember spending countless hours there, basking in the company of the flowers during the day (They were really the only company I had), and watching the sunset in the evening. As you could probably imagine, being a man of rich inheritance and ancestry, life was good for me. Yet, as good as it was, the excitement quickly wore thin. I began to crave so much more beyond my garden, beyond this cage of rusting gates and bright lights that I seemed to be eternally afraid to leave. I was so lonely, forced to watch as the little children and lovely lasses passed by without even a glance.

But then she appeared. I didn’t know how she got beyond the gates at first, but the first time I saw her was as I entered the green house on a Sunday afternoon, well ready to have an engaging conversation with a with a bed of daisies (they always were the easiest to talk to). She looked about my age at the time, no older then seventeen years. She wore a gown as white as snow and her hair gleamed with the essence of the midnight sky. Everything about her seemed to reflect beauty, and even the flowers swayed and danced to her presence. I had to know who she was, but all the while I couldn’t bring myself to speak. She looked to me, her face smiling.

“They’re beautiful.” She said. Then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone, like a petal in the wind.

From then on, she would visit the greenhouse every Sunday. Year’s worth of her visits passed quickly, and though I would grow and age, she would stay ever radiant. I never spoke to her or asked for her name, only calling her “Angel” to myself. I always felt so mortal, so small and miniscule compared to her.

Now to this day, where I sit in my death bed far away from that cage, that Garden of Eden that I had spent my youth, I continue to wonder if she still visits or if the flowers still grow without me. I wonder about who lives there now and if they or their children go to visit her. I wonder if my angel was all simply a dream, an imaginary presence thought up by a lonely man, or if god had sent someone to keep me company all those years. Then I think back on my memories of that good old greenhouse, and I smile, because in the end it was the only thing that made me truly happy.