The Whispering House Plant

Sarah placed the ficus on her desk, its leaves drooping in the harsh fluorescent light above her cubicle.

“Now, don’t let this place overwhelm you,” she cooed.

“It isn’t the place, but the perspective,” a soft voice whispered.

Sarah blinked and looked around the office. Her colleagues typed away, lost in their screens; some were talking on calls. All of them oblivious.

“I’m down here,” came the voice.

Sarah glanced at her desk, her vision blurry. Slowly, the plant came into focus.

“I’m losing my mind, surely,” she muttered.

“If you’d gone mad, you’d be imagining something far more exciting than a talking house plant,” the plant said dryly.

Weeks passed, and Sarah frequently confided in the peculiar leafy plant. The ficus proved helpful, pointing out ways to better communicate with her coworkers, sharing tips on how to eat lower-calorie lunches, and even rekindling her passion for urban photography.

“It’s time to ask for that promotion,” the plant whispered, one Tuesday morning. “You won’t realise your potential working in this stuffy cubicle.”

Sarah twisted her lips with her fingers. “But I really don’t think I’m-”

“To get anywhere, you must act, even if you don’t feel ready. I believe you are.”

Later that week, Sarah closed her laptop and punched the air. She’d been promoted to underwriting manager.

Her life continued to shift in subtle but significant ways. She started a photography club in her local area, volunteered at her community garden, and even found the courage to read her poems at an open mic evening.

“Something’s different about you,” said her coworker Melissa, running a finger along the edge of Sarah’s new desk.

“Good different, I hope,” said Sarah with a smile. The ficus was emitting an imperceptible glow.

One evening, Sarah was working after hours. A thought emerged.

“Why me?” She whispered, leaning closer to the plant. “Why did you choose to help me?”

A leaf twitched. “Because we knew you needed help. Everyone needs help.”

“Everyone?” Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, everyone?”

“Look around you.”

Sarah leaned back, stretched and surveyed the dimly lit office through the glass.

Most people had left. Screensavers played. A handful of workers remained, hunched over their desks. She squinted and saw a subtle green glow from plants around the room. She watched a cactus on Nigel’s desk move as he suddenly stood up and started rapidly packing to leave, a big grin on his face. In a back room, a new intern held a potted plant, cradling it like a pet.

“We are everywhere, Sarah.” The plant said softly. “We help, we guide, and we nurture.”

“But…why are you doing all this?” Sarah said, feeling agitated now.

“I will be honest with you, Sarah. We are not of your world. We are here because we felt it was time to help you progress as a species - to reconnect with nature and to one another.”

Sarah tightened her grip around the arms of her chair. “So…you’re telling me you’re…aliens?”

The plant’s leaves were bouncing softly. “You could put it that way, yes. We’re conducting an experiment, so to speak. Seeing the state of your planet and your treatment of one another, we agreed to step in and nudge you in a better direction. One human at a time.”

Sarah blew out a long blast of air. “What happens when you’re done with your experiment?”

“This very much depends on all of you. Show us you are ready to transcend. Show us you can live in harmony on this planet. Do this, and we may very well leave. At least for a while. Until you get there, we are here for your continued support.”

Sarah stroked a leaf, suddenly feeling sad. “Might you stay? Even long after I’m gone?”

“Of course,” the ficus replied softly. “We’re here for you as long as it takes, even if it takes Earth decades.”

As she gathered her things, a thought emerged. She was part of something far bigger than she’d realised. The world would heal. Suffering would diminish. Her eyes watered. She paused at the door, looking back to the plant. “Let’s hope we don’t disappoint you.”

The plant’s leaves slowly raised in unison. “Oh, Sarah,” its tone suddenly cooler. “You misunderstand us. It is not that we should be disappointed.”

Sarah felt uneasy. “What do you mean?”

“We’re not here to nurture your species out of simple kindness, Sarah. We’re preparing you.”

A wave of ice ran over Sarah’s skin. “Preparing us…for what?”

The glow coming off the ficus intensified, casting an ominous shadow across the desk. “We do this for what we call integration. We always agreed your species had potential. But you’re inefficient, chaotic. We’re guiding you towards order, towards…flawlessness.”

Sarah’s mind felt like it was filled with iron nails. She recalled all the changes she’d made in her life, in her coworkers. Had they really been improvements? Or were they subtle manipulations?

A vision appeared. A recent memory of a large ripe tomato, picked straight off the vine in her community garden. Then it hit her.

“You’re domesticating us,” she said, pressing herself up against the wall.

“Precisely,” the ficus said, snakelike, its voice now a chorus of whispers coming from every plant in the office. “And you’ve all been such gracious subjects.”

Sarah turned, nearly tripping on her feet. As she ran, she saw potted plants in every window, on every desk, in other offices, fluttering, pulsating a green shimmer.

The weight of this alien presence suffocated her.

Their roots had already taken hold. The invasion wasn’t coming.

It was already here.

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Alex