I discovered the ficus on a Thursday morning, though "discovered" might be too generous a word for something that had been standing in the corner of my living room the entire time, between the window and the fireplace, green and quiet and completely unremarkable.
I had walked past it a hundred times without noticing it, without really seeing it. It was just there, part of the background, another expensive thing in a penthouse full of expensive things. But today something was different, and the leaves were yellowing. Not all of them, just a few at the edges, a faint sickly color that spread from the tips inward like a bruise. The soil was dry and cracked and pulling away from the sides of the pot like it had given up trying to hold itself together.
I stood in front of it for a long moment and looked at this plant, this ordinary unremarkable plant that had been here the whole time. Surviving, barely, while I wandered through my amnesia lost and confused and completely unaware of its existence.
"I'm sorry," I said to the ficus.
The ficus didn't respond because it was a plant, but I felt like it deserved an apology anyway. I had neglected it and forgotten it and walked past it every day without seeing it, and now it was dying and I hadn't even noticed.
I found a watering can in the kitchen under the sink behind a collection of cleaning supplies I had never used and didn't recognize. I filled it with water and carried it back to the living room, and the ficus waited with the patience of something that had been waiting a long time. I watered it carefully and thoroughly until the soil was dark and damp and looked like it could breathe again. The water pooled briefly on the surface and then sank in and disappeared into the dry earth.
"There," I said. "Better."
I didn't know if it was better. I knew nothing about plants, and the old Vivian probably had a gardener who came once a week to tend to the ficus and whatever other plants existed in this penthouse. But I hadn't seen a gardener, and I hadn't thought to ask.
I made a mental note to ask Lucas.
The next day the ficus looked worse, and the yellow leaves had spread. More of them now, creeping inward like a disease. Some had turned brown at the edges, crispy and curled and dying.
I stared at it in horror. "I watered you. I gave you water. Why are you dying?"
The ficus didn't answer, and it just stood there drooping slightly and looking like it had given up. I watered it again because maybe I hadn't given it enough, and maybe it needed more. Maybe it was thirsty and starving and desperate for someone to notice it before it was too late.
I gave it more water and more, until the soil was saturated and water pooled on the surface and refused to sink in. Until the pot felt heavy and full.
"There," I said again. "Now you have enough."
The ficus didn't look grateful. It looked like it was drowning.
Sophie arrived that afternoon for another search session and took one look at the ficus and gasped. "What happened to your plant?"
"I watered it."
"How much?"
"I don't know. A lot. It looked thirsty."
Sophie knelt beside the ficus and examined the leaves and touched the soil. Her expression shifted from curiosity to concern to something approaching horror. "Vivian, this soil is soaked. Completely waterlogged. You're drowning it."
"I'm helping it."
"You're killing it with kindness. Literally."
I stared at the ficus and the yellow leaves and the brown edges and the drooping branches. I had tried to help and noticed it was suffering and tried to fix it, and I had made everything worse.
"I don't know how to take care of things," I said quietly. "I don't remember if I ever knew."
Sophie's expression softened. "It's just a plant. We can fix this."
"Can we?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Kevin will know. Kevin knows everything."
Kevin arrived thirty minutes later with a moisture meter and a small bag of tools. He knelt beside the ficus like a doctor examining a patient and checked the soil and the leaves and the roots by carefully tipping the pot and peering inside.
"You've watered it four times in two days," he said. "The roots are drowning and can't breathe. That's why the leaves are yellowing."
"Can you save it?"
Kevin considered. "I don't know. Ficus plants are sensitive, and they don't like change or being moved. They don't like inconsistent care. But they're also resilient and can survive a lot if given the right conditions."
"What does it need?"
"Less water and more light and consistent temperature. And time. Plants heal slowly, and you won't see improvement overnight."
I looked at the ficus, drooping and yellow and barely alive. I had nearly killed it by trying too hard and by loving it too much, by not understanding what it actually needed. It felt like a metaphor for something, though I wasn't sure what.
"I'll take care of it," I said. "Properly this time. I'll learn what it needs."
Sophie grinned. "That's the spirit. Operation Save the Ficus begins now."
Kevin pulled out his laptop. "I'll create a care schedule with watering frequency and light requirements and signs of distress to monitor. We'll document everything."
"You're going to spreadsheet my plant."
"Plants are data. Data requires management."
I looked at the ficus and at Kevin's spreadsheet and at Sophie's determined expression. This strange wonderful family I had stumbled into was going to help me save a plant I had nearly killed, not because it was important but because it was important to me.
Lucas arrived that evening to find all three of us gathered around the ficus. Sophie was reading aloud from a plant care website, and Kevin was adjusting something on his laptop, and I was just watching and waiting and hoping.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I nearly killed it," I said. "The ficus. I watered it too much. I was trying to help."
Lucas walked over and examined the plant with clinical detachment, the same expression he used for contracts and schedules and coffee orders. "You've watered it four times in two days. The soil is saturated, and the roots are likely drowning."
"Kevin already told me."
Lucas looked at Kevin, and something passed between them. Not quite respect and not quite acknowledgment, but something in between.
"I can try to save it if you want."
"You know how to take care of plants?"
"I know how to follow instructions. Kevin has a care guide, and I can implement it."
I stared at him. Lucas Grey, my impossibly efficient assistant, was offering to take care of my dying ficus. Not because it was his job, but because I cared about it.
"Thank you," I said.
His ears turned pink. "I'll need to move it. The light here is insufficient, and there's a window in the study that gets morning sun. It will recover better there."
"Okay."
He picked up the pot carefully and gently, like it was something precious that mattered. He carried it out of the living room and down the hall toward his study, and I followed him. He placed the ficus on a small table by the window and adjusted its position until the light fell exactly right. He checked the soil with his finger and frowned slightly.
"I'll need to repot it. The current soil is retaining too much moisture, and it needs better drainage."
"You know how to repot plants."
"I researched it while you were talking to Sophie."
Of course he had. Lucas Grey researched everything and prepared for every possibility. He had probably read three articles and watched two videos in the time it took me to explain what had happened.
"Thank you," I said again.
His ears went from pink to red. "It's just a plant."
"It's my plant, and I nearly killed it, and you're saving it."
"I'm following instructions. Kevin provided the care guide."
"You're doing more than that."
He didn't respond, and his ears were crimson now. He was focused on the ficus and adjusting its leaves and checking the soil again, doing everything except looking at me. I watched him for a long moment, this careful controlled ear-blushing man who had stayed with me during a panic attack and held my hand and said "always" like it was a promise. And now he was saving my dying plant.
"Lucas."
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you're here."
His hands stilled on the ficus leaves, and his ears went from crimson to something approaching purple. He didn't turn around.
"Always," he said quietly.
I smiled and left him to his work, and behind me I heard him exhale slowly like he had been holding his breath and was only now allowing himself to release it. I understood, and I was starting to feel the same way.