Wonder surrounded Willa Wyndhaven since first footsteps when wildlife seemed drawn to her innocent charms. By adolescence, innate rapport between Willa and all growing things crescendoed into uncanny bonds - injured beasts walked miles through blizzard nights to rest within her sheltering barns, blighted village homesteads flourished abundantly whenever Willa passed handing blessed seeds amongst their fallow furrows, while ne’er-do spells reliably broke when herbal tinctures touched ailing elders’ lips despite frail ages.

Eventually titled “Dandelion” for ever-present yellow medicinal sprouts trailing hersteps, Willa’s solitary thatched cottage became overflowing botanical sanctuary. Through intuition she alone could translate, Dandelion nurtured plants considered weeds alongside exotic Mediterranean specimens shipped by admirers into thriving lush gardens rivaling royal conservatories - all to distill balms through alchemy defying contemporary medicine. Even as plague shadowed hamlets across the realm, not a single lost soul dwelled where Dandelion’s signpost creaked in yearning breezes. Villagers began addressing desperate pleas to “The Green Haven” from afar hoping the blessed young woman might somehow multiply her talents alleviating suffering near.

In such dire eras mysteries arousing profound relief also sparked sinister distrust. For not all ailments plaguing body and soul meet holistic remedy. Inevitably embittered physician egos bruised by peasant rumors praising Dandelion’s humble cures over ineffectual bleedings and leeches provoked insidious whispers. Surely only pact with pagan forces or worse could explain this unlearned maiden’s suddenly thriving enterprise usurping reputable doctors? And are not her outlandish ways targeting Christian orthodoxy itself alongside community wellness?

Frail minds nursing private grudges soon twisted benign herbalism into harmful spellcraft with gold Dandelion gladly accepted from those cured. Had anyone truly glimpsed the healer’s true eyes while ingesting strange concotions? What decent woman lurks home alone concocting odd mixtures without husband or prayer? Does not Satan oft disguise poison amidst floral temptation, his flower-crowned protege beckoning righteous neighbors astray?

These fabrications swiftly stoked reactionary outrage against the healer from ones feeling threatened by change of any hue. Thus shortly following summer solstice when every garden in the district burst forth abundant from prior year’s grief, outraged clergy helped direct mob wrath towards the sheltered glade rumored source of this unnatural turn violating local order. They roared Old Testament oaths through the tranquil copse where chirping chickadees once greeted kind young Dandelion by name...now hands meant healing clenched tortured against the biting pyre devouring her accomplishments as jealous onlookers howled approval. The wafting smoke’s crimson glow reflected across dozens of soulless eyes watching the green witch’s violent exile.

What became of Willa‘s fragile remains none dared ask thereafter less a similar curse befall their line. In time only overgrown graves occupied the once gracious glen. Yet decades later when plague unexpectedly resurged across now smog-choked cities, a few descendants swore sighting new exotic flowers mysteriously blossoming 'round cracked stone wells and forgotten herb gardens sealed since their granny was a sprout. Had Dandelion somehow returned continuing good deeds left unfinished from her garden sanctuary somehow blooming beyond seasons and years alike?

By spring thaw old-timers notice first - violet snow blossoms erupting inexplicably 'cross frost-crusted churchyards. Market squares soon crowd lavender blooms scenting every homestead doorframe as daily prayers give thanks for such heavenly blessing upon their community. Even the boldest urchins racing lanes spy emerging chervil and saffron spicing hope where only hunger gnawed prior. None can scientifically explain this phenomena's clockwork permanency. Yet rumors persist of a diaphanous maiden gliding soundless through the night kiss planting alchemical kiss upon each renewed root. Behind dandelion drifts dancing her ghostly steps, green haunted memories endure waiting patiently to heal humanity’s self-inflicted plagues once again when spirits awaken broadly. For the blessed apothecary's soul flows eternal as rivers splitting stone return. No flames prove strong enough extinguishing every spark from ember hearts remaining to kindle dreams that much further still.