trepadora

“A witch? Is that what they’re calling me?”

On the edge of town, where the main path diverges into small trails and the concrete gives way to dirt and grass, sits a large building covered in dirty glass and vines that support its decaying, off-white frames; and a smaller building that practically peeked from its side.

“What else would they call you? A phytologist?”

The smaller building was a cottage; with mossy bricks that covered the outside and a couple windows that let in as much sunlight as they could. There was a dusty living area, dusty kitchen, a slightly less dusty restroom, a couple bedrooms full of stale air, and a wide room that maybe used to be the master bedroom but was now a (very dusty) hybrid library and office.

“Is that...a word?”

The main building was a greenhouse that was occupied by a variety of plants. Some low to the ground with fleshy, rounded leaves, while others stood tall and bore blossoms and fruits. Some in neat rows, lined up on tables, and some meshed together and toppled onto the floor (where, in time, their roots rehomed them).

“Of course it is! Those were the people here before you.” 

“Oh.”

The only non-green—that is, 'not living'—things in the greenhouse were the old hoses and their sprinkler attachments, and about a dozen boxy computers. Most of the monitors were too old to start up, and their keyboards had turned into flower beds. And if the mice wired into them weren’t dangling off the counters, they were oddly missing.

Luckily there were two computers that still looked like they were in working condition. In the middle of the greenhouse in a small, plastic cage were a set of white monitors, keyboards, mice, and towers. One monitor had a label with the word ‘server’—all of the wires from the other computers seemed to feed into that computer’s tower—and the other monitor’s label read ‘main’.

Both of the monitors and their towers had red lights in front of them that would glow every fifteen minutes, signaling that they were in a low power state. Whatever kept them powered was either covered up in the greenhouse or outside of it.

“You don’t dress like a witch, though.”

“Hm, but do I dress like a ph- phylothogist?”

“Phytologist. And no! Maybe if your dress was white instead of see-through, you could pass for one!”

Squatting behind the plastic cage was a young lady with dark, wavy hair wearing a translucent dress. She wore enough striped clothing underneath the dress to keep herself modest, along with knee socks and grey Mary Janes. She looked into the cage, trying to read the small labels pasted on the backs of the computer towers.

She sighed, drawing herself up. The growing ache in her knees and the strain on her eyes wasn’t worth another wasted attempt at learning more about the abandoned machines.

As she stood, a small, earthy-colored creature floated beside her head. It watched as she kept staring at the computers for a while longer, hoping that something would make sense, until she gave up and began making her way out of the greenhouse.

“Then I guess I’m a witch,” she shrugged. "Or whatever the villagers here want to call me."

"Definitely not a phytologist," the creature laughs.

The young lady joins, chuckling, "Not at this rate."

end.