She rises, brushing dirt off her pants. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says softly.
Then she does something unexpected.
She waves.
Right at the Grove. Not at a person. Not toward me.
Just… to the woods.
And walks away.
I stare at the spot she stood for a long time.
The moss curls upward.
The vine’s leaves stretch.
And my bond tightens again—gentle, like a hand pressing against my chest.
I’ve watched a hundred seasons pass.
But nothing has ever watchedmelike she does.
After she leaves, I stay.
I always do.
But this time, something is different.
The Grove doesn’t fall silent like it used to. The hush that usually follows a departure—that weighty return to solitude—doesn’t come.
Instead… the soil hums.
A low, earthy vibration that thrums beneath my feet and settles in the marrow of my chest.
I crouch beside the ward-tree and press my palm to the moss at its roots. It's warmer than it should be this late in the season. The breath of the Grove isn’t fading with the day like usual—it’sgathering.
Drawing something in.
Or someone.
I close my eyes.
Decades. That’s how long the Grove’s been still. Quiet. Balanced on the edge of dormancy. Not dead—but asleep. Content to guard and rest and forget the sound of footfalls that weren’t made by me.
But now...
Now the vines stir before sunrise, the wildflowers bloom in crooked and eager patterns, and even the air feels different. Lighter, and a little less old.
I stand slowly, bark creaking at the joints of my legs. I drag one hand along the spine of the tree behind me, anchoring myself.
I was made for silence. Born of root and runestone, summoned into stillness.
Lately, hope has taken root in my ribs.
Because she comes. She sees. Shefeelsthe Grove in a way no outsider has in years.
And worse—worse than any change or break in ritual—I want her to come back.
