I pat the earth beside the fresh thyme sprout, brushing my hands off on my pants. “Okay, little one,” I whisper. “Don’t die on me.”
A laugh bubbles out of my throat, too soft and too nervous to really land.
I stand slowly and stretch, my spine popping in at least three places. The air feels heavy, like a thunderstorm’s waiting somewhere just past the treeline.
The vine is back today, coiled near the edge of the bed. Not touching, not reaching. Just… present.
“I didn’t bring anything fancy,” I say, voice low. “Just my awkward self and some dirt under my nails.”
It’s ridiculous, talking to a plant like it’s going to answer.
But the Grove has started to feel less like a place and more like abeing—a presence curled around the edges of my life.
Still, I start packing up, trying to be respectful of the fading light.
And that’s when it happens.
A voice.
"Clara."
It’s not close.
It’s not loud.
But it cuts straight through my chest like a thread pulled taut.
I freeze.
Every instinct I have screamsrun. Go. Now.
My breath sticks in my throat as I whip around, heart hammering. No one.
Not a single soul.
Just trees.
Leaves rustling. Wind curling around my neck like a whisper.
I grab my tools in a fist and take a step back.
Then stop.
Because the voice… it didn’t feel threatening.
It feltgentle.
Tentative. Like someone speaking a name they’ve only ever read before.
I swallow hard.
“Who’s there?” My voice wavers like a violin string out of tune.
Silence.
The kind that listens.
“I—I don’t mean any harm,” I stammer. “I swear.”
