Of me.
Of the past.
I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the trunk.
“Say it’s not time,” I murmur, not really expecting an answer.
The wind rustles through the upper branches.
Not denial or comfort.
Just movement.
Because the Grove doesn’t stop for me.
It never did.
Footsteps crunch nearby—light, measured. Hazel’s.
She plops down next to me without preamble, chewing on a caramel stick and swinging her legs like she’s bored at a tea party.
“She’s thinking about it,” she says after a long beat. “You know that, right?”
I say nothing.
She glances over. “Clara. The grant.”
Still nothing.
Hazel sighs. “You’re not really great at the wholetalking about your feelingsthing, huh?”
“I wasn’t made for it.”
She shrugs. “So make yourself now.”
“I don’t want her tonotgo,” I say finally, voice low, brittle at the edges.
Hazel nods, like that was the answer she was waiting for.
“Doesn’t mean it won’t suck if she does.”
“She deserves it.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, standing again. “But so do you.”
And then she leaves, whistling off-key, like she didn’t just pull the floor out from under me.
I stay beside the tree until night drapes the Grove like velvet.
I check every boundary line.
Every root pulse.
Every vine.
I pull the daisy crown from where I left it hanging on the ward stone and lay it gently on the altar bench—petals still bright, if a little wilted.
I don’t know what to say to her.
