Lila’s Herbarium

Some people live so quietly, they begin to feel like a myth. Lila appeared in the village like the shadow of a cloud — without a beginning, without a reason, without a past. At first, people thought she was someone’s granddaughter or a distant niece, but no one ever came looking for her. Eventually, they stopped asking. She seemed to dissolve into the landscape — like a pond no one noticed until it was already there.

Each morning, Lila could tell what kind of day it would be by scent. If the air smelled of mint and clay — it was time to gather herbs. If it carried the smoke of something old — best to stay inside. She didn’t collect flowers like other people did. She knew each plant belonged not just to a field, but to a memory of the world. Yarrow — for those who fear sleep. Cornflower — for those who once lied. Verbena — against the dreams that come back too often. Lila made herbariums. But they weren’t just pressed flowers — they were maps. Some saw in them forests that never existed. Others — a face. Some — their own silence.

Her herbariums weren’t bought. They were kept — hidden in wardrobes, behind mirrors, under tablecloths — the way people hide forbidden letters or keys to rooms they no longer enter.

Now and then, villagers would whisper:

— Lila doesn’t dry flowers, she dries time.
— She collects what never bloomed.
— The glass in her frames holds not air, but silence.

And then, Lila disappeared. Not suddenly — no. First, she stopped walking the meadow paths. Then her windows began to go dark earlier each night. And one morning, the house stood empty — the kind of empty that feels permanent, like a closed book. Only the wildflowers along the foundation remained.

Strange ones, soft and bright, that no one had ever seen before. They smelled like ink and rain. Some say Lila walked into one of her own herbariums — chose the right flower-day, lay down between cornflower and yarrow, and sealed the glass from inside.

Now and then, her work is found in old attics. Some say the flowers still breathe. Others say: If you stare too long, you’ll remember things that never happened. And when that happens — it’s best to put the frame down.

And forget.