Chapter 3 Segment 2 of the Sentient She Shed
The path curved gently.
Not paved. Not marked. Just soft earth and scattered paw prints.
Lila followed them through a narrow archway of ivy. Beyond it, the air changed—cooler, quieter, like a hush before a story begins.
The garden wasn’t made of flowers.
It was made of flash drives.
They sprouted from the soil like tiny stems, blinking softly. Some glowed blue. Others pulsed green. A few flickered like they were remembering something.
The mouse stepped forward and tapped one with its paw.
It bloomed.
Not with petals, but with light.
A memory rose from it—soft and shimmering. A sketch Lila had drawn years ago, tucked away and forgotten. It hovered in the air, then settled gently into the soil.
The garden hummed.
Lila touched another.
This one bloomed into a poem she’d never finished.
The flash drives weren’t just storing data.
They were growing it.
Prompt for readers: We would love it if you left a comment below, either and answer to the questions or about whether or not you are liking the story.
What memory would you plant if it could bloom into something beautiful?