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She reached deep—not with force, but with invitation.

She imagined the grove at the peak of summer, green and wild and bursting with light. She imagined the whisperingwoods healthy again, buzzing with insects and alive with birdsong. She imagined safety, warmth,belonging.

And then she poured that image into the child.

“Take root,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Breathe, little one. The forest still wants you.”

A shudder rippled through the girl’s limbs.

The faintest flicker of gold beneath her bark. A glow. A tremble.

The petals in her hair shivered.

And bloomed.

A soft gasp escaped Hazel, who reached out as the dryad’s limbs regained color—no longer pallid, but flushed with new green and gold.

Delilah sat back, panting, her hands trembling but her heart full.

“She’ll still need watching,” she said hoarsely. “But the rot’s pulling back. Her roots are waking.”

Hazel stepped forward and—unexpectedly—dropped to her knees beside her.

She cupped Delilah’s face with warm, weathered palms.

“The forest sees your heart, child.”

Delilah blinked, stunned.

Hazel smiled softly, then reached into her wild hair and pulled a vine from behind her ear. It shimmered with life—fresh, living—and at its end, a moonblossom bloomed bright as twilight.

With delicate care, Hazel began weaving the vine into Delilah’s curls. One flower. Then another. A second vine followed, tucked just behind her other ear.

The scent was sweet. Ancient.

“This is how the elders mark kin,” Hazel said, her fingers weaving deftly. “It means you’re of the land. Ofus. You didn’t need to be born to it. You only needed to come back.”

Delilah’s throat closed, the weight of years pressing on her shoulders and lifting in the same breath.

“I thought I burned that bridge,” she whispered. “When I left for Salem. When I stayed away.”

Hazel’s eyes sparkled with something deeper than forgiveness—recognition.

“You wandered,” she said. “That’s allowed. But you found your way home. That’s what matters.”

When she finished, Hazel stepped back, surveying her work with a small, proud nod.

“You wear the land now. Let it protect you.”

Delilah reached up, fingertips brushing the flowers woven through her hair, and for the first time since she’d stepped foot back into Celestial Pines, she didn’t feel like a visitor wearing borrowed skin.

She felt seen.

She felt claimed.

By something older and wider than fate.

And for once, she let herself believe she truly belonged.