The following short story is the Prologue for Anastasium: Dawn of EDeN
a prequel novella to the Anastasium series
The house felt cold and unwelcoming—scarce space, scarce warmth. The walls were clean but bare, every surface polished to perfection, as if any stray object might upset the delicate balance her mother demanded. No pets, no toys, no signs of life—only high expectations, etched into every corner—unseen rules Ana knew by heart.
Her father was there, but hollow—a presence that filled space without offering comfort. He drifted through the house like furniture, silent and passive, always hidden behind a newspaper or offering a vague nod at the dinner table. It was her mother’s voice that carried weight—sharp commands wrapped in an iron sense of control, shaping the house and everyone in it to her exact design. Ambition was her mother’s altar, and Ana was the offering.
Even at eight years old, Ana knew she didn’t belong to herself. Her time wasn’t her own, her voice didn’t matter, and her desires were treated as childish distractions. There were only chores, schedules, and perfect grades—anything less brought sharp reprimands.
But outside, among the garden, there was peace. She would bury her hands in the soil and lose herself in the quiet rhythm of tending to the plants, shaping their leaves just so—as if order in the garden might ease the chaos inside her heart.
She held a glass jar to her chest, her small hands trembling. Inside, a beetle tapped against the glass, its legs skittering as it tried to make sense of its new home. Ana named him Harry, imagining him as more than a beetle—a tiny friend in a house that didn’t allow friendships.
Her mother’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “Unacceptable! No living things allowed in the house! How many times must I tell you?”
Ana’s breath hitched, clutching the jar tighter. “I—I was just bringing Harry outside,” she stammered, voice small and wavering. “Please, let me let him go.”
Her mother stepped forward, her shadow looming large in the dim light. “Harry?” Her lips curled into a sneer. “This is a disgusting insect. You will not humanize vermin, Ana.” She yanked the jar from Ana’s hands, forceful enough to make her stumble back.
“No! Please! Don’t—” Ana cried, reaching out, but her mother was already twisting the lid off with cold efficiency.
Her mother tipped the jar. The beetle tumbled to the tile, its tiny legs scrambling for purchase. Before Ana could react, her mother’s foot came down with a sharp stomp. The brittle crack of Harry’s shell shattered the silence. When her mother lifted her foot, all that remained was a smear of crushed shell and mush.
Ana recoiled, pressing her hands to her face, her sobs breaking free in jagged bursts. Grief and helplessness twisted in her chest, too big for her small frame to hold. But her mother stood unmoved, as if she had swept away a bit of dirt.
Her voice, cool and condescending, sliced through the sobs. “You want a friend?” she asked with mock sweetness. Ana froze, knowing something worse was coming.
Her mother stormed into the yard and returned with a dried pinecone in hand. She tossed it at Ana, the jagged edges scraping against her skin as it hit her arm.
“There you go. Your new friend.” The smirk stretched across her face held no kindness—just a quiet, cruel satisfaction.
As she walked away, her voice echoed through the house: “
And don’t forget your chores.”
The door slammed, leaving Ana in the thick silence that followed. That’s when Ana learned speaking up didn’t help. Silence kept her safe. Compliance meant survival.
She sat on the floor, staring at the lifeless smear on the tile and the pinecone resting beside her. Harry was gone, but the pinecone was still with her—small, silent, and hers. She would care for it without fear of destruction.
Later that night, Ana sat on the edge of her bed with the pinecone cradled in her hands. It was brittle and rough, but when she tilted it, she noticed a tiny pine nut nestled deep inside one petal.
Her heart fluttered—a flicker of hope in a world that offered none. Quietly, she searched for an old can in the kitchen drawers. Outside, under the soft moonlight, she scooped soil from the garden, the cool earth grounding her as she pressed the tiny seed into the soil.
She gave it a small sip of water, her fingers brushing over the surface like a promise. She named it Jacob.
A strong, comforting name. Jacob wouldn’t be loud. He wouldn’t draw attention. He would grow in silence—just as she had learned to do. Hidden, but alive.
She tucked the can beneath her bed, smoothing the soil one last time. This was hers. Amidst the chaos, she found solace in nurturing life.
Ana woke early, the house heavy with silence. Beneath her bed, the tin can holding Jacob rested out of sight. In the garden, under the first light of dawn, Ana knelt among the plants, trimming leaves and arranging rows into symmetrical patterns. She whispered names to each plant, thanking them for their produce, certain these small rituals would make the world kinder.
Over time, Ana’s fondness for small plants deepened. She found herself drawn to bonsai trees—fragile and demanding, yet resilient. Tending to them became more than just a hobby; it was a ritual. Each careful trim, every measured watering, felt like a small act of devotion—an unspoken promise to nurture life against the odds. In the quiet hours, surrounded by her miniature forest, Ana couldn’t help but see them as her surrogate family—resilient and enduring, despite their delicate appearance.
“You’ll be okay, Jacob,” she whispered one evening, gently patting the soil in his tiny pot. “I’ll take care of you.” The words hung softly in the air, more than just a promise to the little plant—they were a vow to herself. This was her sanctuary, a small, steady space in an unpredictable world.
Peace is fragile when built on hidden things.
One evening, her mother burst into the room, her sharp gaze sweeping the space. Her eyes landed on the bonsai trees arranged along the windowsill, their small, delicate leaves glowing faintly in the dim light. Her expression twisted into disgust.
“What is this nonsense?” she snapped, yanking a bonsai from the sill.
Ana froze, her heart pounding.
“They’re just plants. I care for them. They don’t hurt anyone.”
Her mother sneered, holding the tiny tree between her fingers as if it were something vile.
“Naming them? Playing with them? This is how you waste your time?” Her arm swept across the windowsill, sending the remaining pots crashing to the floor. The sharp sound of shattering ceramic filled the room, followed by the soft patter of soil spilling out, broken branches splayed on the ground.
“No!” Ana cried, dropping to her knees, frantically trying to scoop the scattered plants back into their pots. Tears blurred her vision as she clutched their crumpled stems, desperately trying to save them. But the delicate branches were bent beyond repair, tiny trunks snapped. Her family of plants was gone.
Her mother stood above her, unmoved, eyes cold and unfeeling.
“Enough of this,” she said, her words a cold dismissal of everything Ana had nurtured. “Get rid of them.”
Ana knelt on the floor, her hands trembling as she tried to gather what remained. The soil slipped between her fingers—a quiet reminder that some things are unsalvageable.
In that moment, something inside her broke—a silent crack, like a brittle branch snapping under too much pressure. She didn’t fight. She didn’t scream. There was no point. Those who created loving spaces for fragile things were not shown kindness.
Her mother left the room, the door clicking shut behind her. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on Ana like the weight of her failure.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, her small fingers shaking. All her plants were gone—but not Jacob.
Beneath the bed, the little tin can lay hidden and safe.
Ana pulled the can out, cradling it in her hands, smoothing the soil with care. This was still hers.
“You’re still here, Jacob,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
The shattered plant remnants lay scattered across the floor, but Ana couldn’t bring herself to clean them up. Nothing she loved was ever allowed to stay. But Jacob—Jacob could stay hidden forever.
She concealed the can under her bed, covering it with a blanket. In her small, secret garden, there was still hope. In nurturing Jacob, she found the strength to keep going—quiet, unseen, but alive.
That night, she sat on the floor, picking up the last surviving bonsai. Its branches, though broken, still deserved care. She trimmed the leaves with precision, each snip deliberate, as if coaxing beauty from the broken branches could somehow heal her.
Each snip was a surrender. A quiet acceptance of a world she couldn’t control. She promised herself and Jacob: I will care for you, even if nobody cares for me. Together, in silence.
And maybe that would be enough.
