My fingers don’t stop trembling, but I go.
Juna announces the dedication with a kind of ceremonial joy that makes my cheeks burn. People clap. Hazel whistles. Julie wipes her eyes with a leaf-shaped napkin.
And I walk up the path beneath a woven arch of blooming vine and sacred bark and step into the new wing.
It’s open-air—walls of living lattice, floor paved in stone and softened by moss, ceilings strung with star-silk vines that Thornhelped coax into form. Rows of native flora are rooted in sun-spelled planters, each one marked with carved, hand-painted sigils.
And at the center, a sculpture.
Not of me.
But of my father’s journal.
Carved in stone.
Vines curling around it like a crown.
I forget to speak.
I forget to breathe.
Until someone nudges me gently from behind.
Julie.
I take a deep breath.
And I say, “This place isn’t just for growing things. It’s for remembering why we grow them.”
More silence.
Then a round of soft, genuine applause.
And Thorn, watching from the shade with something like pride flickering across his features.
After the ribbon’s cut and the applause fades, the festival spills out in full bloom.
Laughter rises like pollen on the wind.
Pixies dart between floating lanterns, children chase flower-charms that Hazel enchanted to giggle when caught, and someone’s playing a reed flute near the reflecting pool.
And then I see him.
Thorn.
Not standing at the edge or watching from the trees.
Walking.
Right through the center of the crowd.
Vines spiral slowly around his forearms, blooming lazily with soft white bellflowers that chime every time someone looks up and notices him.
He doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t shrink.
His shoulders are straight. His chin is lifted.
