In the hushed blue of early morning, the city of Tenochtitlán stirs to life. Mist curls over the water’s surface, veiling the chinampas—garden beds that float like emerald rafts upon the lake. At the edge of one such garden, a young novice gardener named Citlali, her hair bound in a braid, kneels in the moist soil. The air is sweet with dew and distant incense, and the city behind her hums with anticipation for the coming day.
Citlali gently inspects the delicate buds of her newest creation—pale, silvery flowers that only open when the sun has vanished. She has spent moons gathering seeds from distant traders and coaxing them to life with songs and whispered prayers. As her hands move among the leaves, she murmurs, "Grow strong for me, little ones. Tonight, you must bloom." The garden around her glows with expectancy, the air trembling as if the earth itself holds its breath.
As dusk settles, Citlali returns to her plot, a small clay bowl of sacred water at her side. The night-blooming flowers begin to unfurl, their petals shimmering with a faint, supernatural glow. Suddenly, the air fills with a soft susurrus—the flowers’ filaments quiver, and ghostly voices spill forth, weaving together in a haunting melody. "Listen," she whispers to the wind, heart pounding, "Tell me what is to come."
The blossoms speak in riddles: "When the sun is swallowed, the world will tremble. Shadows will dance upon the temples, and all hearts must be brave." Citlali listens, her breath shallow, as the prophecy of a coming eclipse unfolds. She realizes the message is urgent—tomorrow, darkness will descend at midday. The night breeze carries the scent of fear and hope in equal measure.
Citlali hurries from her garden, her hands trembling as she cradles a single glowing blossom. The temples loom ahead, obsidian gleaming in the half-light. She approaches the high priest, her voice steady despite her fear. "Honored one, the flowers have spoken. An eclipse will come. We must prepare the people."
Word spreads swiftly through Tenochtitlán. Priests don feathered cloaks, and families gather in courtyards, awaiting the moment when the sky will darken. Citlali stands at the edge of her garden, watching as the city braces for the unknown, the memory of the flowers’ song echoing in her heart. In the hush before the eclipse, hope and uncertainty entwine, like moonlit petals unfurling in the night.
