A pause.
Then, from the trees, barely more than a rumble through stone and root:
"You tend the Grove."
I almost drop the trowel in my hand.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I mean… not officially.”
The trees stir. Something moves behind the veil of vines, just out of sight. Not threatening. Not aggressive.
Just… present.
"Why?"
That one word holds weight, like it’s being asked by someone who’s never had the right to ask questions before.
I blink hard. “Because it’s alive. And beautiful. And hurting, maybe. I don’t know. It just feels like it deserves more than neglect.”
The wind circles me, soft and cool.
Another pause. Then?—
"Most do not see."
I clutch the strap of my bag tighter. “I see what I can.”
The voice sighs.
Not tired. Not bored.
Relieved.
"You may stay."
And just like that, I can breathe again.
I press my lips together and nod, even though I know whoever—orwhatever—this is can’t see it.
“I was gonna stay anyway,” I say quietly. “But thank you.”
There’s no answer.
Only the feeling of eyes closing—watching, but no longer trying to hide it.
I finish packing my bag in a blur, heart still fluttering, mind racing. Did that just happen? Was thathim?
I don’t know whohimis. Not really. But I know there’s something—or someone—woven into the roots of this place. Someone patient. Someone tired. Someone lonely.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance toward the trees one last time.
“Goodnight,” I say, so soft I’m not sure I actually speak it aloud.
No reply.
But the vine near my boots shifts.
Not a full move. Just a nudge.
