And that makes her even more dangerous.
...But the leaves above rustle once, sharply.
She is not just another intruder.
And that makes her even more dangerous.
I begin to turn, to sink back into the trees where I can disappear. But I pause.
The vine she touched—Delira’s Twist—still trembles.
That shouldn’t happen. The Grove responds and recedes quickly, especially from the unmarked. But now, its leaves remain curled toward the path where Clara walked away. Almost… yearning.
I step forward, crouching beside it. My fingers hover above the curling green.
Heat lingers in the stem. Not magic. Just… warmth.
The imprint of her.
I close my hand around it gently, letting the sensation bleed into me. Her presence wasn’t loud or invasive. It was soft. Patient. Like rain on old stone.
For a moment, my vision narrows, bark tightening across my chest.
She didn’t belong here. She should’ve felt the wards, heard the trees warn her off. But she didn’t run.
And worse, a part of me didn’twanther to.
I rise slowly, breath shallow.
The vines whisper her name back to me.
“Clara.”
It isn’t just her touch that lingers.
It's the feeling that—for the first time in decades—the Grove isn't watchingme.
It’s waiting forher.
CHAPTER 3
CLARA
There’s a rhythm to tending things. A slow, steady pattern that wraps itself around your hands until you forget everything else—except what’s in front of you.
On the third day, my boots know where to step before I do. Down the pebble trail, past the wind chime arch. My fingers already ache in anticipation, but it’s the good kind. Thedoingkind. And I like that better than thinking.
The herb bed’s started responding. The mint isn’t strangling the chamomile anymore, and I swear the nasturtiums have bloomed twice since I mulched them yesterday. They seem… happier. Or maybe I’m projecting.
I kneel, brush damp dirt from my knees, and tuck a stray hair behind my ear.
“Morning, babies,” I whisper to the plants. “Let’s make you pretty again.”
There’s no one nearby to hear me talk to plants. Which is good. Humans make me self-conscious. Vines don’t.
I pull weeds, snip dead heads, and loosen soil with a fork that’s been taped at the handle. It’s peaceful here. Except…
Every so often, I look toward the Grove.
