(short story)

When Angela’s houseplants started disappearing, she thought it was her neighbor Valya with her old tricks again. Valya had a habit of “borrowing” things without asking—like garden shears, a yoga mat, and once even a dog. 

But this time, Angela was wrong.

It all began with Mr. Ficus, the pride of her collection, who mysteriously vanished from the living room. Next, the fern disappeared from the kitchen, leaving behind a suspicious trail of soil. By the third day, even her indestructible snake plant had made a break for it.

Determined to catch Valya red-handed, Angela set up a camera. Instead, she was horrified to see the footage of her beloved ficus sneaking across the room in the middle of the night, its leaves rustling as though whispering.

The plants…were leaving…one after another.

Angela stared at the screen, muttering, “I water them and ‘this’ is the thanks I get?”

Determined to reclaim her green fugitives, she followed a trail of damp soil to the park at dawn. There, in a secluded clearing, she found them—her plants, her babies—holding a secret meeting. Mr. Ficus seemed to be leading the protest, dramatically waving his broad leaves as though demanding freedom.

“What is this? A union meeting?” Angela shouted.

Mr. Ficus turned to her, somehow managing to look both defiant and apologetic. Beside him, the cactus cleared its throat with a dry rasp.

“We love you, Angela,” Mr. Ficus said, his voice surprisingly deep for a plant, “but your playlist is awful. We can’t photosynthesize to sad indie ballads anymore.”

Angela blinked. “You left me… because of my music?”

“We need Beyoncé. Or at least some ABBA.”

From then on, Angela played disco every morning. The plants stayed. And Mr. Ficus even learned to dance.