He’ll send her packing.
I slink into the roots and listen.
“You Clara?” Ryder barks.
Her voice is soft. “Y-yes.”
“Don’t touch any trees that have names carved in the bark. Especially near the Grove.”
A pause. Her energy stutters. She blinks. “Is there a reason?”
Ryder takes too long to answer. Typical.
“They’re not trees anymore.”
He turns and leaves.
That’s the best he’s got? Useless fish.
The girl—Clara—sits back, rattled but not terrified. She's processing.
She looks at the Grove again.
Her gaze snags on the older trees—my kin, long dormant.
Something in her expression twists. Not fear nor suspicion.
Sadness.
She sees them. Like they’re sick. Or grieving.
I don’t move. Can’t.
She whispers something to herself. I don’t catch it. Wind carries it too fast. She rises and dusts her hands off, slowly, like she doesn’t want to break the moment by standing too quick.
Then she’s gone.
Back down the trail. Back toward the cabins.
I remain where I am until her scent fades—moss and lemon balm and something earthier beneath it, like dried roses.
The Grove stills.
But I do not.
She will come back.
I can feel it in my bark. In the roots under my feet. In the ache of the old tree behind me—its branches lift just an inch higher when she was near, like it wanted to be seen.
I lean a hand against its gnarled side, closing my eyes.
“I know,” I murmur.
It doesn’t answer. It never does.
But the leaves above rustle once, sharply.
She is not just another intruder.
