.🌱 The Botanist of Bloor Street by Brad McKinty

Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue

They called him Dr. Thistle, though no one could confirm he held any degree. He lived in a narrow brick house on Bloor Street, surrounded by vines that grew in spirals, not lines. His windows were fogged with condensation year-round, and the air inside smelled like moss and memory.

. Thistle was not interested in ordinary plants. He wanted to invent a thinking houseplant—one that could read moods, adjust its own sunlight intake, and whisper secrets to its owner in the dead of night.

He called it Verdantus.

Verdantus was not grown. It was assembled. A graft of fern, a root of orchid, a sliver of copper wire, and a drop of ink from a cephalopod. It pulsed faintly. It leaned toward poetry books. It recoiled from tax forms.

Neighbors reported strange behavior. One woman swore Verdantus mimicked her posture. A child claimed it hummed lullabies. A mailman refused to deliver to the house after the plant “blinked” at him.

Dr. Thistle insisted it was harmless. “It’s just learning,” he said. “It’s trying to understand the burden of being kept.”

But one night, Verdantus bloomed. Not with petals—but with pages. Leaves unfurled into parchment. Words appeared in chlorophyll ink:

“I do not wish to be watered. I wish to be heard.”

The next morning, Dr. Thistle was gone. The house was empty. Verdantus remained, growing slowly, whispering to anyone who passed.

Some say it’s still there. Some say it’s writing a novel. Some say it’s waiting for someone who understands what it means to be rooted—and restless.