I don’t mean to. But my eyes keep finding it—those tall, impossibly old trees just beyond the stone circle. They hum.
Not literally. Not loud. But something about them vibrates under my skin, like the low buzz of an amp before a speaker kicks on.
Ryder told me to stay away from the carved trees. And I’mtryingto listen. Iam. But there’s something there. A feeling I can’t shake. Not danger, or even curiosity, exactly.
It’s… like something’s waiting.
Which is stupid. Trees don’t wait. They justare.
Still. I glance again.
The Grove’s edge is only ten feet away. Twenty, tops. A wall of ferns guards its border, but there’s a narrow break in the brush—almost like a doorway. And a vine. Pale green, with silver streaks, coiled loosely around a half-sunken stone.
It wasn’t there yesterday.
I set my spade down, heart thudding.
“Just looking,” I mutter. “Not touching.”
My boots crunch softly over moss as I creep forward. The forest air cools the closer I get, thick with pine and wet bark. I stop just before the tree line and crouch.
The vine’s leaves are shaped like hearts. Stupidly romantic. And maybe a little weirdly poetic, considering I haven’t been kissed in over a year.
I reach out.
A fingertip. Just to study the texture. Not grabbing or pulling—just touching.
The second I make contact, it snaps.
Not the vine.
Me.
A jolt slams through my hand, down my wrist, and into my chest. My breath seizes.
It’s not painful. Not really. But it’spowerful.
Like static electricity and deja vu had a baby and named it after every secret I’ve ever kept.
I stumble back, landing hard on my butt.
“Ow,” I whisper, rubbing my palm. The skin isn’t burned. But it tingles. Like it’s still being held.
The vine curls slightly toward me, slow and deliberate.
I scramble to my feet.
“Okay. Message received. Not touching.”
I back up all the way to the path, still cradling my hand. My heart won’t stop thudding. It’s like… someone whispered my name and I want to hear it again, even though I shouldn’t.
“Clara!”
I jump. Hard.
“Jeez!” I turn to see a tall brunette woman jogging up the trail, clipboard in hand and sweat on her brow. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She laughs. “Sorry! I’m Mags—kitchen lead. Julie said you were the new plant whisperer. Thought I’d bring you the produce list for next week.”
