Later, after dusk, I wander back to the heart of the Grove.
Thorn’s waiting.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just sits beside me as the fireflies flicker and the leaves hum with quiet magic.
“You saw?” I ask, barely audible.
“I saw everything.”
My voice breaks on a laugh. “I didn’t throw up.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and my heart does that ridiculous somersault thing it always does when he’s near.
I lean into him, shoulder against bark-skin, pulse steadying.
And for the first time in a long, long while…
I feel like I belong.
Not just to the Grove.
But to myself.
The second week, I ditch the pointer.
By the third, I’m drawing diagrams in the dirt with a stick and letting kids interrupt with questions halfway through my sentences.
Turns out I like it that way.
I stand in front of a cluster of students, hands dusted with ash bark and chalk, sketching the convergence point between human irrigation routes and natural leyline flow.
“Design isn’t about dominance,” I say, voice steady now. “It’s about listening. Observing. Letting the wild parts speak first.”
I gesture toward the root map we’ve etched into the Grove’s edge clearing.
“When we align magical infrastructure with the land’swill,” I continue, “we don’t just avoid damage—we make somethingbetter.”
A few students nod.
Hazel grumbles, “Bet the city planners won’t care.”
I smile. “Then we show them. Through the work. Through theresults.”
The Grove behind me pulses faintly—encouraging, affirming.
And I realize then, this isn’t just about restoration.
It’s aboutbalance.
About building a future where roots and concrete can share ground.
Where wild and human don’t cancel each other out—but create something new.
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and turn back to the class.
“Now,” I say, smiling, “who’s ready to get their hands dirty?”
