I want her voice on the wind.
I want her scent in the air.
I want her fingers near the vines, even if it makes them greedy.
The Grove pulses again beneath me.
Like it agrees.
Like I’m not the only one who’s tired of being alone.
As the lastof her footsteps fades into the hum of dusk, I move.
Quietly. The trees make space for me, parting branches like a held breath.
I cross the glade where she’s worked, careful not to disturb a single root.
The garden beds are nothing extraordinary to the untrained eye—small rows, patchwork planting, a few mismatched trellises—but when I kneel and press a hand to the soil, I feel it.
She’s been listening to the land.
She layers mulch, not just for moisture but for warmth. She rotates crops without being told. No harsh fertilizers. No cutting corners. Just patience, compost, and heritage seeds passed through hands that understood what living things needed before they asked.
Old methods. Sacred ones.
She’s not just growing plants.
She’s cultivatingrespect.
I run my fingers through the soil of her lavender bed. It crumbles rich and dark, full of worm paths and air pockets. Breathing. Alive.
A small, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth.
No one teaches this anymore; not since the worlds turned faster and louder and forgot to ask the dirt for permission.
But she remembers.
Or maybe she never unlearned.
I rise and brush earth from my palms. The air around me feels less still, as though the Grove itself is leaning closer to see what I’ll do next.
“She's not like the others,” I murmur to the tree behind me.
The bark doesn't respond.
But the leaves shiver softly, like they agree.
CHAPTER 7
CLARA
Ishould’ve turned back five minutes ago.
The sun’s dipping low, casting gold across the treetops like someone spilled honey over the sky. But I’m still here, kneeling in the garden bed closest to the Grove. Close enough I can see the runed stone buried halfway in moss. Close enough to feel… it.
The hum again.
It’s stronger this time, like the soil itself is watching me work.
