Not even when she sighs and whispers, “Okay. Maybe you needed space.”
She leaves behind a small clay cup filled with wildflower water.
Then she turns and walks away, slower this time, like part of her is still waiting to be called back.
But I don’t call her.
Because if I draw her closer, I’ll only make her more visible.
More vulnerable.
And if anything ever harmed her because Ilet her in…
I wouldn’t forgive myself.
I am bark and root and shadow.
She is light.
And I don’t know if I can protect her from what that light will attract.
The Grove feels it.
Even if I don’t speak it aloud—my sorrow seeps into the soil.
The vines closest to my resting hollow hang lower tonight. The moss curls tighter, not in bloom, but in retreat. A patch of foxglove that Clara coaxed into blossom has withered at the tips, browned too soon.
I sit with my back to the ward tree, arms crossed over my chest, eyes locked on nothing.
I shouldn’t feel this.
But I do.
The ache. The absence.
Her laughter no longer hums through the canopy. Her scent has faded from the stone. And the Grove feels heavier for it. Dimmer.
A part of me whispers that this isn’t balance.
That it was never justhersgrowing here.
But I clench my jaw and hold the silence like armor.
Because letting her come back—welcoming her—would only make the danger worse. If she stays, she’ll glow brighter. Call louder. Draw everything the Grove was meant to keep out.
Better to let her wonder than to let her burn.
I press a hand into the soil.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The Grove doesn’t answer.
But the wind through the trees sounds like mourning.
CHAPTER 13
CLARA
