CLARA
Istart carrying more in my satchel.
A hand trowel, two jars of compost tea, a little woven pouch of dried calendula petals—those are the usuals. But now, tucked in next to the seed packets and my granola bar wrappers, there’s always a book.
Today it’sSoil and Spirit: Companion Planting for Resilient Growth. Not exactly a page-turner for most people, but it reads like poetry to me.
When I step into the Grove, it feels like walking into a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. The air here is thicker somehow, heavier with green, sweet with something floral that isn’t anywhere else on camp grounds.
He’s here.
I don’t see him at first but Ifeelhim.
That ripple in the atmosphere, like the trees lean toward something taller than me. It’s strange how quickly that feeling has become comforting instead of terrifying.
“Hey,” I murmur to the moss. “I brought you something.”
I kneel at the usual spot, next to the vine that always curls in a little when I get too quiet. From my satchel, I pull out the dog-eared book and hold it up like I’m presenting a sacred text to a council of dryads.
“No pictures, sorry. But it’s got my dad’s margin notes, and those are gold.”
Still no answer. Just birdsong and the distant rustle of shifting leaves.
I flip the book open, scan a few lines, and start to read aloud.
“‘The secret to healthy roots is complexity. Plants don’t thrive in isolation—they support one another underground through a vast web of symbiosis. A single seedling may need dozens of unseen allies to survive its first season. Sometimes it’s not the strongest that survives. It’s the one most willing to connect.’”
I glance around, heart fluttering like it always does when I read something that feels too honest.
The Grove doesn’t move. But something in the soil tightens.
I smile. “Pretty, right?”
There’s a shift behind me. A subtle change in light. I don’t turn right away. I’ve learned not to startle the moment. If he wants to be seen, he’ll show himself.
I keep reading.
“‘Companion planting encourages mutual protection and soil health. Basil wards off pests that harm tomatoes. Beans return nitrogen to the soil that corn depletes. Marigolds protect everything.’”
I pause. “I always thought marigolds were the moms of the garden. All bright and bossy.”
That earns me a sound.
Not a laugh, exactly, but a quiet rustle. Like bark flexing.
“I know you’re there,” I say softly. “You don’t have to talk. I just figured you might want to hear something besides me fumbling through apologies.”
The leaves above me sway once, like they’re nodding.
Encouraged, I keep reading, slower now, letting the rhythm do the work. I fall into the cadence of it, and for a while, it feels like the forest breathes with me.
I don’t know how long I go before he speaks.
It’s quiet. Gravel and wind. Like moss wrapped around thunder.
“Read more.”
I freeze.
