Weeks passed, and Liora's stories spread beyond her cousins. Farmers paused in their work to listen, weavers hummed her tales into their cloth, and children played games inspired by the garden's marvels.
Though most still called it myth, the village began to shift in small, gentle ways. A farmer planted flowers along his field, saying he hoped they might sing. A weaver embroidered glowing blossoms into her shawls. A child left lanterns by the brook, waiting for them to float without flame.
Liora realized the garden's magic was not confined to its hidden walls. It lived in every act of wonder, every spark of imagination. The quiet strength she carried was now blooming in others.
One evening, as she sat beneath the orchard trees, she held the glowing blossom in her hands. Its light pulsed softly, as though in rhythm with her heartbeat. She understood now: her role was not only to visit wonders, but to plant them wherever she went.
The garden had given her a gift, and she was learning how to share it.