Rowan slept and woke in restless fits until he finally tossed the blankets away and took to wandering the ship. Sebastian was nowhere to be found, everything quiet in the early hours of morning. He still ached with each step he took, but he kept moving until he reached the bridge. The large window revealed a myriad of stars and brilliantly colored galaxies. He placed a hand on the icy glass as he looked out. Somewhere out there on one of those stars sat his father in a cold, damp cell, probably wondering if he’d ever see the sun again. Or that humble little house he had built with the one person he had struggled to live without.


    “Rowan.” The sibilant whisper had him turning, squinting in the dim lights. “Rowan. Come to me. It’s alright.”


    He took a single step away from the window. “Rowan, come to me, darling. I’m in the garden. Come and find me.”


    “Mom?”


    “Come and find me. I’m in the garden.”


    Rowan followed the hallway towards the five doors and stopped before the car door. A yellowed paper sign had been taped to the cracked window, reading “Conservatory” in a flowery hand. It squeaked when he tugged it open, rust flaking off onto the floor. The room beyond felt like the inside of a well, circular and damp, the dripping of water sounding from somewhere up above. A rope ladder dangled before him, and hesitantly, with that whisper beckoning him, he climbed up. The smell of a thousand flowers greeted him at the top, the sight of colors he hadn’t expected in space stopping him as he stared in wonder. Several paths wound through the trees and flowers, and up above existed more levels, more plants, connected by swaying wooden bridges.


    The whispers had quieted as he passed row after row of plants, all sorts and many he’d never seen before. There were plaques before most of them, their names and location written in that same flowery hand. A large flower, bright red and shaped like a half moon, leaned over the path. He reached out to brush the velvety bulb, only for it to open up and snap at his fingers. He jerked back with a cry. It let out a low hiss, revealing row upon row of needle-sharp thorns. The silvery plaque read “Venus Flytrap.”


    “Rowan.” The whisper came again, prompting Rowan to step around the snapping plant and delve deeper into the vast garden.


    He stopped in an area devoid of other plants except for the three coal black trees, towering over him, so high their slender branches brushed the thick glass ceiling. “Rowan.” The whisper filled the air. “Come to me, my darling. Come here.”


    Rowan resisted the urge to reach out to the dark branches beckoning him. “Yateveo. Man-eating trees.” He had read about them in one of his father’s journals. He recalled there being a man who had used the trees to create living puppets though it’d ended badly.


    “Rowan!”


    He jerked in surprise and took a step back, but the trees were silent. He turned to see Kenan and Lyra running over to him. “Do not go near the yateveo.” Lyra stopped beside him. The only color she wore was a pink bandana in her hair, her white dress and the flickering fluorescent lights combined to give her a more ghostly appearance.


    “They enchant people,” Kenan panted as he stopped nearby, “then they eat them.”


    “I’ve read about them.” Rowan said softly. “I like your garden.”


    “Monster!” The trees shrieked in his ears. “Monster like us!”


    Rowan tried not to flinch.


    Lyra smiled, either ignoring or simply not hearing the words. “We took our time with it.”


    “Thanks to the Skeleton Vine infestation.” Kenan said. “I swear our captain has crashed us into more dangerous things than anything. We found the spores in an unoccupied part of the ship and wanted to see if we could coax them into life.”


    The tree hissed at being ignored. A branch tried to slither closer to Rowan but stopped short. “Monster.” It whispered. “Like us.”


    “Where did you find them?” Rowan asked.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    “Dracun-x16.” Lyra replied. “At the edge of the universe where the worst things reside. Close to my home planet.”


    “Lyra.” Kenan admonished then said. “We wanted to test a theory.” He held up a jar of glittering dust.


    “The dust makes them forget what they are.”


    Other branches crept forward, inches from Rowan’s face, like skeletal fingers dipped in black ink. “We see you. We see the truth. Monster.”


    “I am not a monster.” He said, clenching his fists.


    Lyra and Kenan both froze then began pulling on the surgical masks they wore around their necks, their hands already gloved in preparation. “Are the trees speaking to you?” Kenan asked. “Whatever they’re saying isn’t true. It’s only to lure you in.”


    “You said the dust makes them forget?” Rowan asked.


    “It never lasts long. They always seem to remember what they are.” Kenan said, handing Rowan a mask before dipping a hand into the dust.


    “Can’t fight nature’s call.” The trees hissed as Kenan tossed the dust at the branches closest to them. “Monsters always know what they are. Always will be what they are.”


    “It is more permanent on people.” Lyra warned. “So do not breathe it in.”


    The branches began to lay still on the ground, the dust like fresh snow against their darkness. Rowan expected them to let out one final whisper, but they were silent. He tilted his head back in relief and saw a line of blue cut across the sky. His heart leapt at the sight. Dozens of the flares streaked across the sky, obscuring the other stars and planets in their dazzling beauty. Every so often, one would light upon the glass, reflecting that cerulean blue against every surface. It was as mesmerizing as the first time Rowan looked up into the sky and saw it from his bedroom window. They made him feel less alone. They made him feel as if he could reach out and pluck a star from the sky, and he wanted to. He wanted to hold the stars in his hands and feel their overwhelming heat until they burned away every terrible thought he’d ever had.


    “They’re beautiful.”


    “Yeah,” Kenan agreed, “but dangerous. He really shouldn’t--” He broke off as Lyra hastily shook her head at him.


    “What is it?” Rowan turned to face them, but neither replied, their eyes filled with a mixture of grief and pity. “You know who’s sending the flares.”


    “We do.” Lyra said, voice barely above a whisper. “But it is not for us to say.”


    “Is it a ship in distress?”


    “No,” Kenan replied, “but the person sending them is. Sort of.” He took a deep breath and ignored the sharp look Lyra sent him. “Ships use flares to indicate all sorts of things. You should see the funerals in space. Flares of all colors go out then. Red is for distress, if the ship is in trouble. Yellow is for caution and usually found near dangerous parts of space. Like asteroid belts or trash rings; ships rarely use those. White is for the darker parts of space or for ships who don’t mean to engage in fighting. Green is for friendly ships, and a better greeting than getting a rocket in the face.” He tipped his head back and stared, unblinking, at another burst of blue against the glass.


    “And the blue ones?” Rowan prompted, his whispered voice suddenly too loud in the silence.


    “Mourning.” Kenan said, voice so soft he was barely heard. “The person sending them out is mourning someone he’ll never get back. Someone he should have let go a long time ago.”


    “It is not uncommon in space to let the darkness take your grief.” Lyra added. “I have seen it often. Some hang flags, paint symbols or their lovers’ names on the sides of ships, and some...send flares.”


    As she spoke, the lights of the flares faded, making the darkness outside seem even darker. “It’s better than drinking alone in some bar or shooting up in the back of an alley.” Kenan broke the silence as he turned away. “As my mother used to say, ‘grief visits us in different ways’.”


    Rowan watched them as they edged away from him, farther into their little garden. “Who does he grieve for?”


    Lyra gave him a sad smile as she stepped over the black limbs of a sleeping yateveo. “We all grieve someone.” She vanished like a ghost into the lush trees behind her, only the sound of water bubbling nearby keeping him company as Kenan followed.


    He let himself out of the garden and nearly tumbled into Brie. She was hurrying down the hall with a steaming cup of tea in one hand, her ripped shirt showing a good deal of skin and a faint tattoo on her hip. She stopped when she saw him. “Oh, good, you haven’t jumped ship after all.” She said as she brushed a long braid over her shoulder. “No one would blame you with our idiot captain. He isn’t easy to love.”


    Rowan bit his lip, wanting to reply to that but not knowing how to. Instead, he asked, “have you seen him? He wasn’t in his room earlier.”


    “It’s a bad night. So he’s staying in mine.”


    He felt a sharp thorn of jealousy stab at him, and it must have shown for Brie laughed and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep our hands to ourselves. I’ll have him back to you in all his glorious self in the morning. This isn’t a side of him you want to see. Not just yet.” She patted his shoulder and moved farther down the hall. “Sleep well, Rowan.”


    He watched her go, his feet itching to follow her, but he returned to Sebastian’s room alone. He stared at the statue’s still form until he could take it no longer and burrowed under the blankets. Tomorrow he’d see his father again, but his mind wandered from a happy reunion to Sebastian sleeping in another’s bed, to the yateveo, and his illness. He tossed the blankets off of him and rubbed his face. He tried closing his eyes, tried to calm his thoughts, but in the darkness behind his eyelids, he could see the burst of blue lights against the glass windows. And if he listened closely, he swore he could hear the hissing of the yateveo in the dark, saying, “we all grieve differently, but monsters don’t grieve at all.”