CHAPTER 1
CLARA
Idon’t like people watching me work.
It’s not a fear thing—not exactly. I just prefer silence. Plants don’t ask dumb questions or fill the air with nervous laughter when I don’t respond right away. They grow, they listen. Sometimes I think they grumble a little when I overwater, but they never make me feel like I have to explain why I’m not smiling.
Which is why standing in the middle of Camp Lightring’s welcome plaza, gripping a folder with sweaty fingers while a dozen people buzz around like caffeinated hornets, is already pushing the edge of my tolerance.
“Clara Monroe?” a woman calls out. Her voice is warm, peppy. Too loud.
I turn and give the smallest wave I can manage without looking rude. “Yes. Hi.”
Julie—she introduced herself in the last email as one of the camp owners—walks over with a bounce in her step and an actual flower crown perched on her head like it belongs there. She’s sunshine in human form. It’s… intimidating.
“My step daughter insisted,” she says, pointing at the flower crown. “Claims I’m Queen of the Camp. Did you find the shuttle okay?”
“I did. Thank you,” I murmur, shrinking half an inch just from eye contact.
Her eyes soften. “We’re so grateful to have you. The botanical project is a big deal for us, especially after all that drama last summer with the lake wards flaring. You’re basically our quiet little miracle worker.”
My cheeks warm. I drop my gaze to the folder and mumble, “I just like plants.”
“Well, you’re in the right place.” Julie beams and gestures toward a winding trail leading into the woods. “We’ve got you set up in the new eco-hub cabin near the Grove—less foot traffic, more peace and quiet. I figured you’d appreciate that.”
I do. A lot.
“Thank you,” I say again, and this time it comes out more like a person and less like a nervous cat.
Julie hands me a map, a staff lanyard, and a reusable water bottle that saysCamp Lightring: Where Magic Meets Mud. I love it immediately.
“Follow the trail markers marked green, and you’ll find your cabin. We’ll catch up later, yeah?” she says, already being pulled away by a redheaded woman yelling something about a misprinted swim schedule.
I nod and start down the trail before anyone else can latch on.
The forest path muffles the sound of people behind me. Each step into the green feels like breathing again after too long underwater.
My boots crunch gently over pine needles and gravel. I pause when I pass under an arching branch hung with wind chimesmade from broken glass and polished stone. The breeze makes them sing—a song only the trees understand.
When I spot the eco-hub cabin nestled in a semicircle of ferns, I almost cry from relief. It’s small, wood-paneled, and smells faintly of rosemary and damp bark. Perfect.
Inside, there’s a lofted bed, a kitchenette, and a stack of gardening manuals on a shelf near the window. The sheets are green. I drop my backpack and sit on the edge of the mattress, letting my shoulders fall.
“You did it, Clara,” I whisper, not proud enough to smile, but comforted that I made it here in one piece.
By mid-afternoon, I’m unpacked and already slipping into routine. The restoration site is tucked behind a thicket of berry bushes near the southern edge of the Grove. My clipboard has a color-coded zone map, and the mulch delivery arrived before I did. A miracle.
I hum softly as I kneel next to the first overgrown bed and start teasing out weeds. Someone’s been letting this place go wild—vines tangled around ancient stone markers, herbs crowding out the bee balm. It’s chaos. Beautiful, unruly chaos.
A twig snaps behind me.
I jerk upright, nearly driving my elbow into a tomato cage. Spinning around, I squint into the treeline, heart pounding like I’m thirteen again and hiding a broken test in my backpack.
“Hello?” I call. It comes out thinner than I like.
Silence.
I swallow and return to work, but the hairs on my arms stay raised. Maybe a deer. Maybe a squirrel with a weight problem.
