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Acro Valle is an independent author, editor, and publisher whose work blends emotional depth with unforgettable storytelling. Creator of the novel Ashes Beneath Flowers, Acro Valle also supports new voices in publishing, offering a platform where readers, authors, and sellers connect through meaningful books.

Ashes Beneath Flowers: Orchidfield

$19.99

The Gospel According to Blood: Bayou county

$26.99

Transformative Preaching How the Holy Spirit Empowers Preaching

$10.00

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The Whispers: Angel vs Devil

“When angels and devils whisper, who do you obey?”

> They come in dreams.
In the hum of the night, in the rustle of the trees, in the spaces between thoughts — they whisper.

One voice speaks of light, love, and forgiveness.
The other promises power, pleasure, and revenge.

To most, they’re imagination — fleeting shadows of conscience.
But for one man standing between faith and madness, they are real. Too real.

As his soul becomes a battleground, every decision draws him closer to heaven… or drags him deeper into hell.

The angels call him chosen.
The devils call him theirs.

And when the whispers rise, there’s no silence left —
only the sound of judgment.

‹ Kembali

Ashes Beneath Flowers

Prolouge

Orchidfield – Where Petals Remember

Long before the asphalt and yellow curbs, Orchidfield was only hills and mist. A quiet basin cradled by forest, where the mornings rose with soft rain and silence. What first captured the settlers wasn’t the land—it was the wild orchids. They weren’t planted. They simply were. Spilling from the trunks of rimu trees, resting on rocks, trailing from branches like forgotten lace. No two were alike. Some clung to bark like secrets. Others bloomed in

midair.

Locals say orchids are the most stubborn of flowers. Epiphytes—born without soil, fed only by air, light, and time. Beautiful, yes, but patient and relentless too. A flower that survives by grace, not force.

Bella Low had once worked as a secretary at James Finance—a crisp office, bright monitors, pressed shirts, and city noise. She was sharp, organized, well-liked. But her heart was never in balance sheets or quarterly reports. Her soul lingered on softer things: petals, rainwater, handwritten .

It was her parents, Arnold and Diana Low, who called her back.

“Come home,” her mother had said. “We’re not getting younger, and the pigs won’t feed themselves.”

They weren’t joking. Her father had returned to the land he was born on—small livestock, one stubborn cow, and a dream of simple living. They weren’t poor, just peaceful. The old village of Orchidfield still held their hearts. And Bella, watching their joy and mud-splashed boots, began to remember why she loved quiet things. Why her fingers had always been better suited to stems than keyboards.

She left the job with no regret. She planted roots beside her parents, surrounded by animals, orchard fences, and the slow rhythm of village life. Soon after, she reopened the family florist stand—revived it under her own name: Bella’s Bloom.

To Bella, becoming a florist wasn’t career change—it was coming home.

She never dreamed of skyscrapers. She dreamed of petals, and every arrangement was a prayer. Each bouquet a message. A bridge between grief and beauty. Between memory and morning.

Orchidfield wasn’t just a name.

It was the quiet place where things could still grow.

Orchidfield got its name long before Bella Low was born.

Back when early settlers found wild orchids climbing the trunks of kahikatea and rimu trees, they said it was a sign of grace—fragile beauty growing in the rough. So they named the place Orchidfield. And somehow, the name stayed long after the orchids thinned out.

Bella always thought it was fitting. Orchids didn’t demand attention. They just bloomed, quietly, where the soil allowed.

Her love for flowers didn’t come from books or Pinterest boards—it came from home.

Her parents, Arnold and Diana Low, had moved to a nearby village after retirement. Tired of the city, they wanted a quieter life. They raised sheep, pigs, and a few stubborn cows on land dotted with foxgloves and dandelions.

They asked Bella to come with them, to trade the fast-paced office life for muddy boots and open skies. But she had other plans.

“I don’t belong behind a desk,” she’d told her father one evening. “But I don’t belong in a barn either.”

She smiled then. “I belong where the flowers are.”

And that’s how Bella’s Bloom was born.

She left her job as a secretary at James Finance, not with regret but with relief. Her parents supported her choice—after all, she’d inherited more than just her mother’s green thumb. She’d inherited her sense of grace, of care, of patience. And her father’s quiet practicality.

Marrying Alex Flowers—the cabman with strong shoulders and soft eyes—only strengthened her roots. She didn’t take his name officially, but Bella Low Flowers became a poetic way to sign off cards and notes. It reflected everything she cherished: her past, her love, and her work.

So while her parents lived in a small village nearby, feeding animals and watching sunsets over paddocks, Bella lived in the heart of Orchidfield, wrapping stories into stems, petals, and ribbons.

Every bouquet she made carried more than fragrance. It carried memory.