They cut the buds before dawn.

That was how you knew it was spring – not with birdsong or the fresh scent of blossoms, but with the scrape of ladders against bark, the snap of branches, and the smell of petals being burned before they had the chance to bloom.

By sunrise, the hills were speckled with bonfires.

No one stopped to look. Not anymore.

People kept their heads down and hurried about their business, stepping over crushed petals as if they were no different from fallen leaves. That was how you survived here: not by shouting or protesting, but through routine.

They say that spring used to arrive like a troublemaker. Not gently. Not politely. It never knocked. It kicked open doors, climbed through windows, slipped under doors. It spilt colour across hills, tangled itself in your hair and laughed while doing it. Not loudly. Just enough to make it known it could not be ignored. Could not be controlled.

Until it was outlawed.

The decree went up in the town square on a morning that felt as if it were about to bloom into something beautiful.

People gathered in the square, squinting at the parchment as if the words would rearrange themselves into something sensible if they stared long enough. It did not.

A guard cleared his throat and read it out loud hesitantly to the gathering crowd, as if he himself did not believe it either.

Royal Decree of Prohibition

By order of His Majesty, King Sebastian Roux:

Let it be known to all citizens, provinces, and territories under authority of the Crown of Vacilly, that the season known as Spring is hereby outlawed. Effective immediately:

1.     The cultivation, possession, or distribution of flowering plants is forbidden. This includes all flora grown for beauty, rather than sustenance or medicinal uses.

2.     All existing flowers, buds, and flowering branches are to be removed and destroyed. Citizens must destroy or report any such growth within the lands of Vacilly.

3.     Possession, trade or concealment of seeds capable of producing blooms or plants with unnecessary colour is a punishable offence.

Violation of this decree shall be met with imprisonment and forfeiture, at the Crown’s discretion.

Let it be understood: The season of bloom fosters the illusion of renewal and false expectation. Such illusions weaken the realm and invite disorder of the heart and mind. The Crown shall not permit that which has proven itself a cruelty in disguise.

Order shall prevail.

Issued under the seal of the Crown,

King Sebastian Rouxx

A man in the back scratched his head. “What counts as ‘unnecessary colour’?”

The guard stared back at him blankly. “All of them?”

“That seems excessive,” the man mumbled.

A woman in the crowd raised a hand. “What about weeds?”

The guard blinked. “Weeds?”

“They don’t exactly ask permission, do they?”

“Then,” the guard stared blankly for a moment before replying stiffly, “they are criminals.”

A boy snorted, which earned him a sharp look from a soldier.

“And if it grows anyway?” a little girl asked.

The guard hesitated before turning away from her piercing gaze as if embarrassed by the entire situation. “Well, then it shouldn’t have.”

It was laughable, yet no one laughed. Not out loud. But it hovered beneath the surface, like something that wasn’t sure if it was allowed to exist anymore.

~~~

King Sebastian stood at his bedroom window. Below him, the gardens were beginning to wake – colour threatening to spill. Small things. Quiet things. A bud here. A fresh sprig there. It made something in his chest twist so sharply he had to grip the ledge.

“It’s started again,” he said. “Make it stop.”

His advisor, Marion, cleared his throat carefully. “Your Majesty… that isn’t–”

“Make it stop!” King Sebastian snapped. “Tear it out. Cut it down. Burn it. I don’t care how.”

“As you wish, Sire.”

“Spring,” King Sebastian said, his voice cracking on the word, “is no longer welcome here.”

They did as they were commanded. They always did. Without saying it out loud, everyone knew that the queen had died among spring blossoms. The king had never forgiven them for surviving her.

Soldiers trampled flowerbeds like they were putting out fires. Gardeners hacked at rosebushes with grim determination. Petals were swept away before they could settle on pathways. Colour drained from the marketplace, from homes, from clothing. From memory.

Even the sky seemed to take the hint, settling into a pale, grey sort of blue.

It didn’t all happen at once. Instead, it faded. Slowly. Like a story people stopped telling. Until one day, no one could quite remember what had been taken from them – only that something felt… missing.

Years passed like that.

~~~

She arrived on a day that looked like nothing at all. Grey sky. Grey walls. Grey expressions.

No one announced her. No one asked where she came from. She simply appeared at the edge of the castle grounds with a bag slung over her shoulder and dirt under her fingernails, as if she’d already decided that she was needed.

“Name?” asked the groundskeeper without looking up.

She thought about it, like she had options. “April.”

He nodded. “Experience?”

“I’ve kept things alive before.”

He looked up sharply. “That’s not really encouraged here.”

She smiled, just a little. “I’ve noticed.”

“You understand the rules?”

“Not really,” she said. 

“That’s not--”

“It’s not that I don’t know the rules. I understand you don’t like things growing,” she added. “I just don’t agree.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. “You’ll fit in terribly.”

The groundskeeper handed her a pair of pruning shears. "Your job is to remove anything hopeful."

"Hopeful?"

"New buds. Blossoms. Colour. Signs of… enthusiasm."

April glanced around.

"Must be exhausting."

"You have no idea."

Every year, just before nature started getting any clever ideas, the head groundskeeper quietly doubled the palace gardeners. And that was how she got to be there without suspicion. They arrived in quiet batches, tools in hand, eyes sharp for anything that looked even remotely hopeful. Their job wasn’t to grow things; it was quite the opposite.

They walked along the garden walls, circled trees, inspected winding paths like assassins – trained to spot the first hint of rebellion. They clipped, they trimmed, they pinched off every bud as if it threatened the kingdom. They were not tending a garden. They were holding a line. And spring, stubborn thing that it was, kept trying to cross it anyway.

The gardens were… wrong. That was the first thing she noticed. Not dead. Not alive either. Just… not right. Hedges were trimmed into submission. Grass grew in obedient little rows, like it had been trained to behave.

She walked slowly, dragging her fingers along leaves that shied away from her touch as if fearful.

“Who did this to you?” she murmured.

The garden, being sensible, kept its secrets.

But she could feel it – something just beneath the surface. Something quiet. Something stubborn. Something that hadn’t quite given up trying to survive.

She found the spot by accident. Or perhaps not.

A thin slice of sunlight sneaking through a crack in the stones of the west wall, landing on a patch of earth that looked exactly like every other patch of earth in the kingdom – if you didn’t know better.

April crouched, pressing her palm to the soil.

“Oh,” she said softly. “There you are.”

The ground felt warmer here. Not by much. Just enough. Like a slowed heartbeat… a held breath.

“You’ve been waiting,” she whispered, “haven’t you?”

That night, she planted a seed.

No ceremony. No drama. She dug a small hole with her hands, dropped the seed in, and covered it.

“Listen,” she said, pointing a finger at the dirt like she was laying down terms. “You don’t have to grow. There are laws, I hear. And a very dramatic king.”

The soil remained silent.

“But,” she added, lowering her voice, “if you do grow… I promise, it’ll be worth it.” She patted the ground a final time. “Up to you. Not all terrible decisions are… you know, bad.”

For a few days, nothing happened.

She came back anyway. Watering when no one was watching. Talking when no one was listening.

“Honestly,” she said one afternoon, “if I were you, I’d be furious.”

Silence.

“I mean it. Imagine being told you’re not allowed to be what you are. I’d grow out of spite alone.”

Silence.

Then- a crack.

It was small. Barely there. But she saw it immediately.

“Oh, you really are furious.” Her grin was slow, but delighted.

A thin green shoot pushed its way up like it had made a decision.

“There you go,” she said with a smile. "I was beginning to think you'd chosen common sense."

It didn’t grow politely. It didn’t creep or hesitate. It grew. Leaves unfurled in unapologetic shades, branches reached higher every day.

People started to notice.

A guard stopped mid-patrol. “Was that tree always there?”

His partner squinted. "Maybe it's always been there."

"It's six feet taller than yesterday," interjected another guard.

"Oh."

A pause.

"That does seem suspicious."

“And I think,” said another, “that seems… illegal.”

“Very.”

They all stared at it.

“It’s also kind of pretty,” one of them said, quietly.

By the time the first bud appeared, the whole garden knew something was happening. Tight. Bright. Waiting.

April stood beneath the tree, hands on her hips.

“Go on,” she said. “I know you want to.”

Nothing.

“Don’t be shy now. You’ve come this far.”

The bud remained closed.

She leaned closer. “Don’t make me beg. I have very little dignity left.”

Nothing.

Then the faintest shift.

April’s eyes lit up. “That’s it. Excellent. Let’s start some trouble.”

~~~

The king heard about it the next morning.

“There’s a tree,” Marion said, as if that explained everything.

“There are many trees,” King Sebastian replied, showing little interest. 

“This one is… blooming, Sire.”

That got his attention.

“Then, do what they always do. Make it stop.”

“Well, Sire,” Marion hesitated, then continued in a low voice, as if saying it out loud would lessen the blow, “they cut it down yesterday. It won’t stop growing back. It just refuses to… obey.”

“No,” he said flatly. “Then burn it down.”

“Well…” Marion glanced at his notes. “We did.”

“And?”

“It appears to have taken it personally. It grew back taller. Overnight.”

“Impossible.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Marion said. “That appears to be the problem. Impossible.”

Sebastian stood abruptly. “Take me to it.”

Even before he reached the tree, he felt it. Like something warm pressed against his skin. 

He stepped into the west garden, and there it was. It stood like it had always belonged there. Blossoms spilt from each branch, catching the light and reflecting it in unwelcome colour. The leaves were too green. The air around it too alive. It felt like stepping into a memory he hadn’t agreed to revisit.

It hit him all at once.

It was wrong.

It was unbearable.

It was-

“Beautiful,” someone whispered.

He turned sharply.

A waif of a girl stood there, dirt on her hands, completely unbothered by the presence of the king and his armed guards.

“You,” he said. “You did this?”

“I did.”

He gestured at the blossoms. “That’s a crime.”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

“Well, you asked, and-”

"You are remarkably calm for someone facing imprisonment."

She shrugged. “And you are remarkably unhappy for someone who owns all of this.”

He stepped closer to the tree, like he couldn’t help himself. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

She glanced up at the tree. “Encouraged poor decision-making in a plant?”  

“Defying the law for a handful of petals,” he said.

April tilted her head, squinted up at the tree, then looked back at the king. “If that’s all you see, I’m honestly not sure what to say to you.”

“That’s not all I see. I see defiance.”

“Really? Yes, you are right,” she said, purposely misunderstanding his words. “I see something that refused to die just because it was told to. That is defiance.”

“It’s not something admirable.” He leaned in close, eyes darkening in warning. “It’s dangerous.”

She smiled, seemingly not intimidated by the dark warning in his eyes. “So is grief. If held onto for too long.”

“Careful,” he warned.

“Why? Will you ban summer next if the sun gets too hot?”

His jaw tightened. “You think you’re clever?”

“I think you’re picking a fight with a season,” she said. “And losing impressively.”

A guard inhaled sharply. No one dared interrupt.

A petal drifted down between them. They both watched it land.

“This,” he said, quieter now, “is not a joke.”

“I know,” she replied. “That’s the problem. You’ve made it one.”

He looked at the tree again, like he couldn’t help himself. Something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not grief. Something hard to put a name to.

“She died in spring,” he said.

The words came out like a caged bird finally set free.

“She must have loved spring,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “She did.”

“So you’re punishing it for outliving her?”

That hit. She could see it land. Silence settled, thin, but heavy.

“You banned the one thing that will always keep her memory alive.”

His fingers furled into tight fists at his side. “You know nothing about her.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But I know that she wouldn’t want this.”

“She used to be happiest in spring,” he said, almost to himself. “Like it had come just for her. She’d laugh and dance in the gardens, walk around having conversations with the flowers.”

He bent slowly, picking up the fallen petal. It rested in his palm, impossibly light.

“I thought…” he said, barely above a whisper.

“That if it went away,” she said gently, “the memory of her would hurt less?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“It doesn’t work that way,” she said. “You don’t get to quiet the world just because it’s louder than your grief.” 

A breeze moved through the branches, scattering petals like each of them had something to say.

Something in his expression shifted. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” she said. “The tree wanted to grow. I helped it. That’s all.”

“That’s never all,” he said.

“Fine,” she said. “I want you to stop fighting something that isn’t your enemy.”

“And if I don’t?” He looked at the petals again, like they might argue back.

She shrugged. “Then it will grow anyway. It doesn’t seem to care much about your laws. Can’t you see that you’re losing anyway?”

He stared up at the branches, at the colour he had forbidden, the life he had tried to silence. He opened his hand slowly, letting the clutched petal slip free.

“I’m tired,” he said, quieter than before. “Of this.”

“Good,” April said. “That’s a good place to start.”

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Lift the ban,” he said.

No one moved at first.

Marion blinked. “Your Majesty?”

“You heard me.”

“But--”

“I’m done,” Sebastian said. “With all of it.”

He turned to look at the young gardener who had upended his entire world. “And you… I should have you imprisoned, but then I would always be reminded that you’re somewhere close by. Never know what trouble is cooking in that tiny head of yours next.” He turned to the captain of the guard. “She is to be banished from the kingdom of Vacilly immediately.” 

~~~

Spring returned the way it always had. Completely uninterested in permission.

It spilt into the world with enthusiasm. Flowers blooming, colours running wild. At first, people gawked like they’d forgotten how bright things could be. Then, slowly, they remembered.

The tree by the west wall of the palace grew taller. Stronger. Brighter. Completely unapologetic.

People came to see it. The whispers had begun in the palace halls. Then spread to the marketplace. And everywhere else. Whispers of a magical tree, the one that stood firm in defiance of an irrational rule.

April never came back, not even once.

The head groundskeeper stood by the tree, scratching his chin.

“Strange girl,” he muttered. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”

A breeze stirred the branches. Petals drifted down, catching briefly in his beard before falling to the ground.

He turned to leave. Then paused.

At the base of the tree, where the soil had once been bare, new shoots had stubbornly pushed through the soil. Small. Bright. Unmistakably alive.

He stared at them. Then, deliberately, did nothing.

But early mornings, before the sun had fully risen, when the world still felt half-dreamy, you might notice something peculiar. The tree did not wake with the light. It woke before it. A quiet stirring. Branches shifting like a stretch after sleeping.

And once every spring – only once – when the first blossoms of the season opened, someone was standing beneath it. Not quite there. Not quite not there. Hands pressed gently to the bark, like greeting an old friend.

It would whisper in a voice, low and familiar.

The leaves would rustle in response.

Then the sunlight would spill over the wall – and there was only the tree.

~~~

Every year after that, when the blossoms returned, the king walked the gardens. Sometimes he’d pause beneath the tree, watching the petals fall, listening to the wind moving through the branches.

“You were right,” he said once, to the tree, to the air, to the memory of his queen, to whatever might still be listening.

And somewhere, just out of sight, someone smiled. Not gone. Just, elsewhere. Waiting for the next place that forgot how to grow.