Night Time Story: The Secret Garden of Fireflies
When Emma moved to her grandmother’s house after Mom got sick, she felt like all the colors had drained from her world.
Grandmother’s house was big and old, with creaky floors and too many rooms. Emma missed her friends, her school, and most of all, the sound of Mom’s laughter.
“It’s just until Mom gets better,” Dad had explained, kissing the top of her head before driving away to the hospital in the city.
The first three days, Emma hardly spoke. She picked at her food and spent hours staring out her bedroom window at the overgrown backyard.
On the fourth night, unable to sleep, Emma noticed a faint glow coming from behind the old shed at the bottom of the garden. Curious, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs.
The summer air felt warm against her skin as she stepped outside. Following the gentle light, Emma pushed through tall weeds until she reached a wooden gate hidden by ivy.
The glow came from beyond the gate. Emma pushed it open and gasped.
A small garden lay before her, but unlike any garden she had ever seen. Flowers of every shape lined neat paths, but they weren’t ordinary flowers. Each one seemed to have tiny lights hovering above them – fireflies, hundreds of them, blinking like earthbound stars.
In the center of the garden sat Grandmother, her silver hair shining in the magical light.
“I wondered when you’d find your way here,” Grandmother said softly.
“What is this place?” Emma whispered, afraid speaking too loudly might break the spell.
“This is the Garden of Whispers,” Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “Come sit with me.”
As Emma sat down, she noticed small glass jars hanging from the branches of a twisted old apple tree. Inside each jar, fireflies danced, casting colored light – blue, green, purple, gold.
“Each jar holds a wish,” Grandmother explained. “When someone visits with a heavy heart, they whisper their wish to a firefly. The fireflies keep our wishes safe until they come true.”
“Did you make a wish?” Emma asked.
Grandmother nodded toward a blue jar. “I wished for you to find happiness here, even though I know you miss your mom and your home.”
Tears welled in Emma’s eyes. “Will Mom get better? That’s my wish.”
Grandmother handed Emma a small empty jar. “Some wishes take time, but the fireflies are patient.”
Each night after that, Emma visited the garden. She whispered to her jar of fireflies about her fears, her hopes, and how much she missed Mom. Sometimes she cried, sometimes she laughed as she told them stories.
Grandmother taught Emma how to care for the flowers. “Each flower is connected to a wish from long ago,” she explained. “When we tend the garden, we’re keeping old dreams alive.”
One flower, a tall purple bloom with silver edges, was Grandfather’s wish from before he passed away. Another, a cluster of tiny white stars, was the wish Grandmother had made on her wedding day.
As weeks passed, Emma’s jar glowed brighter. The garden became her special place, and slowly, color began returning to her world.
One evening, Dad called with news that Mom would come home soon. The treatments had worked.
That night, Emma raced to the garden. Her jar of fireflies pulsed with bright golden light, as if celebrating.
“My wish is coming true!” she told Grandmother excitedly.
Grandmother smiled. “Sometimes wishes need a little help. The fireflies don’t just hold our wishes – they remind us to keep hoping.”
When Mom finally visited, still thin but with color returning to her cheeks, Emma led her to the secret garden. She watched Mom’s face fill with wonder at the sight of the glowing flowers and dancing fireflies.
“Your grandmother showed me this garden when I was about your age,” Mom said, surprising Emma. “I made a wish here too, once.”
“What did you wish for?” Emma asked.
Mom and Grandmother exchanged smiles. “For a daughter just like you.”
Together, they hung a new jar in the apple tree – this one containing three wishes from three generations of women, whispered to the fireflies who would keep them safe until, one by one, they could come true.
By Eleanor Nightshade
