The Mourning Star

Eden's Greenhouse

Now I have to

Remember you

For longer

Than I have known you.

3 Months Later -

"Anthony! Wake up, dear!"

Anthony Joseph Crowley slowly stirs from slumber, his eyes fluttering open to the soft, golden light streaming through a lace curtain into his lofted room. As his senses come to life, he becomes acutely aware of his surroundings. The room is simple yet cozy, with floral-patterned wallpaper adorning the walls and a warm, earthy scent that fills the air. With a puzzled frown, he runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to make sense of the strangely unfamiliar room. Memories flicker at the edges of his consciousness, like fragments of a dream he can't quite grasp. He knows his name, Anthony J. Crowley, as if it's been etched into his very soul, something irremovable.

Slowly, as if emerging from a fog, he begins to recall the room and his life. He's the main groundskeeper of a greenhouse— The Secret Garden Greenhouse, or locally known as the SGG of upper SoHo. The names Melody Meelan and Christopher Meelan resound in his mind, familiar yet distant, like echoes from another time. His heart quickens as he realizes that these memories are not borrowed or manufactured. They are his own, deeply ingrained in his being. Looking at his desk on the other side of the room, he smiles to himself. Never drink absinthe again, he thinks as he rubs his temples and steps out of bed into the chilly draft of the room.

Suddenly, quick footsteps come up to his room, the face of Mrs. Meelan somewhat agitated in a playful manner.

"Mr. Crowley, now I know you're a grown man, and you can do whatever you like with your free time. But, I insist that you come downstairs for our breakfasts. You know that." The older woman crones, her hands on her hips. Her dark brown, curly hair, flecked with strands of silver, fall in loose waves down her back, although she often gathers it into a neat braid that trails over her shoulder when gardening. Her complexion carries the warmth of a latte, a rich and inviting shade that hints at a lifetime spent in the embrace of sunlight and nature. The sun-kissed undertones bring out the gentle contours of her face, adding a touch of natural radiance to her appearance.

Mrs. Meelan's eyes are perhaps her most captivating feature—a beautifully rich brown that reflects the depth of her undying curiosity for the world. They are windows to a wellspring of knowledge and a thirst for understanding, always brimming with a quiet sparkle of wonder.

Crowley bows his head, "Apologies, Mrs. Meelan. I s'pose I was lost in a very deep dream."

"Well, the sun is up and now so are you, so get dressed and come downstairs. Christopher has already gone out to the markets to grab supplies." Mrs. Meelan purses her lips slightly with a nod, and she turns and descends the stairs, leaving Crowley alone in his room. The distant sounds of pots and pans clinking in the kitchen are a comforting backdrop as he quickly changes into more suitable attire for the spring morning—a pair of well-worn jeans and a light, earth-toned shirt that complemented the colors of the greenhouse he has come to love. Before heading downstairs, he glances in the hanging mirror of his room. Dark auburn hair hangs at his shoulders, cascading in brushed-back waves that frame his face with an air of effortless cool. The deep crimson of his hair carries a hint of rebellion, a stark contrast to the serenity of the greenhouse he now tends to.

His eyes are a soft, contemplative brown, a shade that holds a world of stories and emotions beneath their surface. They are the eyes of someone who has seen much and felt deeply, a testament to the complexities of his unknown nature. For some reason though, those warm eyes seem foreign to him on his face. Crowley possesses a lean frame, but it bears the subtle musculature of a man accustomed to lifting and tending to various supplies on a farm. His lithe build speaks of both strength and agility, hinting at a past that had demanded adaptability and resourcefulness.