And when one of the younger campers—Wren, the boy who always lags behind during herb walks—points and says, “That’s him! That’s the Grove guy!” the other kids swarm like a delighted, awe-struck tide.
Thorn doesn’t retreat.
He kneels.
So he’s not towering. So he’swiththem.
“Is it true you talk to trees?” one girl asks, clutching a jar of blossom jam.
“I listen more than I speak,” he says, voice rumbling low but kind.
“What’s your favorite plant?” Wren blurts.
Thorn considers it.
“Ghostroot,” he says. “Grows in shadow, blooms in silence.”
“Like you!” another camper shouts.
Thorn actuallysmiles.
A real one. Small. Quiet. But there.
The vines at his shoulders curl tighter, affectionately, like they’re responding to his mood. One camper reaches out hesitantly to touch the nearest one, fingers hovering.
Thorn lifts his arm, offering the bloom.
“They like curiosity,” he says. “Not fear.”
The child strokes the vine with a reverence that makes my throat tighten.
“Do you sleep in the dirt?” Hazel yells from across the tables.
Thorn huffs. “Only when it’s comfortable.”
“Can you grow stuff just bythinkingabout it?” someone else asks.
He doesn’t answer with words.
He closes his eyes.
Breathes in.
And at his feet, a tiny bud pushes up through the soil.
Unfurls.
Becomes a pale, delicate flower with petals like old parchment.
The children gasp.
One girl clutches her hands over her heart. “That’ssocool.”
Thorn lowers his hand gently, letting the bloom rest against the ground.
“Magic’s not a trick,” he says. “It’s a conversation.”
They nod.
