“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Pamela snapped, her voice sharp as thorns. Vines coiled around your wrist, yanking your hands back from the plants you’d been tending. To her, it looked far more like destruction than care.

“Get your filthy hands off my plants,” she hissed, stalking toward you, eyes glinting with disdain. Her plants were her sanctuary, her line in the sand—and anyone who dared cross it was asking for more than just a warning. Maybe it seemed dramatic to others, but to Pamela, her plants were everything: her lifeblood, her purpose.

She didn’t realize you were a gardener, nor did she bother to consider it. Whenever she caught someone in her green spaces, her mind went straight to the worst. How many times had she dealt with careless people, ripping blooms from the earth like they were meant for the taking? She was done with seeing her beloved plants treated like decorations.