Read by Matilda Longbottom

In the heart of a tranquil graveyard, Ivy, the dedicated gardener, tended to her beloved roses, adorning the resting place of the departed with bursts of vibrant colors.

Ivy’s passion for roses knew no bounds. From the tender Peace rose to the fragrant Just Joey, she nurtured an array of hues, with purple reigning as her favorite. Her devotion extended beyond the living, as she scattered their petals atop graves, a silent gesture of remembrance.

Unbeknownst to Ivy, her labor of love was observed not only by the living but also by the spirits that lingered amongst the tombstones. From the newly departed to ancient souls, they found solace in the beauty she bestowed upon their final abode.

Among the ethereal visitors was a Cherokee weaver woman, her spirit intertwined with the land long before the graveyard’s inception. She reveled in the sight of white roses, serenading the buzzing bees with forgotten melodies.

Yet, the oldest among them was a nameless soul, forgotten by time itself. Born crippled, he defied the odds, living a life obscured by the sands of history. His presence, though silent, spoke volumes of resilience and perseverance.

But not all visitors were of human origin. Animal spirits roamed the flower-strewn grounds, drawn by the allure of Ivy’s garden, where life and death danced in harmony.

“Ivy, you have a gift, tending to these flowers with such care,” the weaver woman whispered, her voice lost to Ivy but not to the ethereal beings around her.

Ivy continued her work, planting new roses by the Mother Mary statue, her favorite spot in the graveyard. As she lovingly placed each seedling into the soil, the weaver woman’s ghost watched, offering silent words of encouragement.

“It’s sacred work you do, Ivy. Both for the living and the departed,” the weaver woman murmured, her spirit a comforting presence amidst the rows of graves.

But as Ivy tended to her roses, a sense of foreboding crept over her. She felt a chill in the air, a whisper of something unseen.

“Do you feel that, dear Ivy?” the weaver woman asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Ivy glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Feel what?”

But before the weaver woman could respond, Ivy collapsed to the ground, her body still amidst the blooms she had nurtured.

The ghosts gathered around Ivy’s lifeless form, their spectral hands reaching out in silent supplication.

“There you are, my dear,” the weaver woman said, her voice a gentle echo in Ivy’s fading consciousness.

As Ivy’s spirit rose from her earthly shell, she found herself surrounded by the otherworldly beings she had tended for so long.

“Can I stay here with you?” Ivy asked, her voice a whisper in the void between worlds.

The weaver woman smiled, her eyes alight with ancient wisdom. “You may stay as long as you wish, dear Ivy. But remember, the choice is yours to make.”

With a nod of understanding, Ivy’s spirit returned to her body, drawn back to the world of the living by a force stronger than death itself.

As the paramedics worked to revive her, Ivy felt the pull of both worlds, torn between the beauty of the afterlife and the promise of life renewed.

But as she opened her eyes to the world once more, she knew that her work was far from over. For in the heart of the graveyard, amidst the roses and the ghosts, Ivy had found her true calling: to tend the souls of the departed and bring comfort to the living in their time of need.