The Morning Ritual

The morning after the funeral, I went back to my routine like a wound I was afraid to touch. I lived with my cousin, Delia, in a cramped two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat that never seemed to stop humming. The air always smelled of cheap detergent and something faintly metallic, like coins held too long. I’d wake at six, stare at the ceiling, then pad to the kitchen in my socks. The coffee maker was set the night before, and I’d press the button, watching the dark liquid drip with a kind of dull fascination.

Delia worked nights at a diner, so our schedules barely intersected. She left me notes—’Leftover pasta in the fridge’ or ‘Call your mother’—but I rarely ate. The grief had hollowed me out. My best friend, Riona, had died of a sudden aneurysm at thirty-two. She was the type who laughed with her whole body, who painted yarrow stalks on her own wedding invitations, who believed in the old woods behind her house. Now I had her spare key, a houseplant she’d entrusted to me, and a recurring dream where she stood at the foot of my bed, mouth open, silent.

Two weeks after the funeral, I woke up, shuffled to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator for milk. The door swung wide, and there, nestled between a carton of orange juice and a jar of pickles, was a note. It was written on a scrap of paper torn from a sketchbook, the kind Riona used. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—the way she looped her ‘g’s and dotted her ‘i’s with a tiny circle. It said: ‘Don’t forget to water the yarrow.’

I slammed the door shut, heart hammering. The note wasn’t there yesterday. I’d cleaned the fridge on Sunday, and this was Tuesday. I pulled open the door again. The note was gone. The fridge looked exactly as it had before. I told myself I’d imagined it—grief does things to a mind. But the rest of the day, I kept thinking about the yarrow. Riona had planted a bed of it in her garden, saying it kept away bad spirits. I hadn’t been to her house since the funeral. Delia offered to go with me, but I’d made excuses. The thought of her empty house, her half-finished paintings, her coffee mug still in the sink—it was too much.

The next morning, I didn’t want to open the fridge. But the cereal box sat on the counter, and my stomach growled. I opened it slowly. There was another note, this time taped to the milk jug. Same handwriting: ‘The yarrow is dry. It needs water.’ I tore it off and read it three times. The paper felt slightly damp. The ink was smudged in one corner, as if from a teardrop. I called Delia, who was asleep, and she mumbled, ‘You should go check on the house. Maybe a pipe broke.’ She didn’t believe in ghosts. I did.

The third morning, I found a yarrow stalk on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t there when I went to bed. I know because I had checked the entire apartment for anything out of place, any sign of intrusion. The door was locked. The windows were bolted. The stalk was fresh, with a few pale flowers. I touched the petals, and they felt almost warm. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Riona had been there, in that kitchen, waiting for me to finally listen.

I drove to her house that afternoon. The key turned in the lock with a click that echoed too loud. Inside, it smelled of dust and old paper. The living room was tidy, but the garden out back caught my eye through the window. The yarrow bed was brown, withered. Some of the stalks had snapped, as if something had trampled them. I filled a watering can from the kitchen sink—the tap hadn’t run in weeks, sputtering brown—and I carried it outside. As I poured water at the base of the plants, I noticed something in the soil: a piece of paper, folded into a tiny square. I picked it up, careful not to tear it.

The note was identical to the ones in my fridge. It said: ‘You found the message. Now come to the shed.’

I looked across the yard to the small shed where Riona kept her gardening tools. A knot formed in my stomach. I had seen that shed from her kitchen window many times, but I’d never gone inside. Now I felt pulled, like a string attached to my sternum. I crossed the grass, the blades wet against my ankles. The shed door was ajar. I pushed it open.

Inside, the air was stale and chilled. A single beam of light fell from a grimy window, illuminating a workbench covered in clay pots and a glass jar filled with dried yarrow. On the bench lay an open notebook. I recognized Riona’s handwriting covering the pages. It was a diary of sorts, entries about her headaches, her blurred vision, and then, the last entry, dated the day before she died. It read: ‘I’ve been seeing her again. The woman in the woods. She comes when the yarrow blooms. She told me to leave a note in the kitchen. She said I have to make sure you water the plants, or else she’ll take root. I’m so scared.’

I stared at the words, my hands trembling. Then I heard the shed’s door creak behind me. I spun around. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dull sky, was a figure. It wore Riona’s favorite green raincoat, but the face was wrong. It was pale, with black eyes that seemed to absorb light. It smiled with too many teeth. ‘You watered the yarrow,’ it said, but the voice was layered, like two people speaking at once. ‘Now you can join her.’

I backed up against the workbench, knocking over the glass jar. The dried flowers scattered across the floor. The figure stepped forward, and I saw its feet didn’t quite touch the ground. It raised a hand, and I noticed its fingers were stained with dark earth. ‘Riona didn’t die of an aneurysm,’ it said. ‘The roots had already taken her. I just waited for you to come.’

I didn’t think. I grabbed the watering can and threw it at the figure. It passed through it, clattering against the wall. The figure laughed, a sound like dry leaves crunching. I scrambled for the door, but it was gone. The shed was empty except for me and the scattered yarrow. I ran back to the house, locked the front door, and leaned against it, gasping. Outside, the garden was quiet. But I saw something from the corner of my eye: the yarrow bed, the withered stalks, had begun to move, as if underground, something was turning them over.

I rushed home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the figure had followed me. That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the living room with all the lights on, watching the kitchen door. At dawn, I saw the handle turn slowly. The door creaked open. There, on the floor, was a fresh yarrow stalk and a note. This time, it read: ‘You brought it inside. Now it’s yours.’

A month has passed. I still go to class, I still work, but I don’t sleep. Delia thinks I’m losing my mind. She’s started to look at me the way people look at something contagious. I dream of roots growing through my bones, of petals sprouting from my eyes. I keep finding yarrow in my apartment, in my car, in my shoes. Today, I woke up and walked to the kitchen. I opened the fridge. There was a note, but this time it was in my own handwriting. It said: ‘I know what you’re doing. Keep watering. It’s the only way to keep her out.’ I don’t know who ‘her’ is, or if it’s me. But I’ll keep watering. I have no choice. The roots are already deep.