She’s kneeling now.
Hands in the dirt.
Tears on the leaves.
And I stay hidden.
Because I must.
Because it’s safer.
Lovehas never been what I was meant to guard.
I dig my fingers into the soil.
It doesn’t fight me. Itneverdoes.
The Grove trusts me—even now, as I lie to it by omission. As I sit in the hollow of its dying heart and let her cry without answer.
I was made for duty.
Not desire.
And yet here I am, crumbling.
Because the longer I stay away, the dimmer the Grove grows. The vines retreat. The light falters. Clara’s presence was keeping it alive, and my absence is undoing her work, undoingher.
Her voice is still etched in my chest. Her laughter curls through my veins like old sap. I relax andfeelthe imprint of her palm in the soil where she knelt.
If I go to her, I risk breaking the magic that hides this place from the world.
If I don’t…
I risk breaking myself.
I don’t know which part is dying faster—the sentinel or the man.
Because there was a moment, not long ago, when I almost kissed her.
And now I’m here, alone, and she’s out there, pleading to ghosts.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The roots around me pulse once—faint, like a heartbeat echoing in a coffin.
I whisper, “I don’t know what to choose.”
For the first time in a thousand years, the Grove offers no answer.
I rise slowly, bones creaking like old limbs in winter.
The Grove senses it—the movement. The hesitation.
I place a hand on the nearest vine, one of the old sentient creepers that’s been here since the elven circle bound my soul to this place. Its leaves twitch under my palm, hesitant.
“I know,” I murmur to it. “You feel her absence too.”
The vine curls weakly.
