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CLARA

I don’t like people watching me work.

It’s not a fear thing—not exactly. I just prefer silence.

Plants don’t ask dumb questions or fill the air with nervous laughter when I don’t respond right away.

They grow, they listen. Sometimes I think they grumble a little when I overwater, but they never make me feel like I have to explain why I’m not smiling.

Which is why standing in the middle of Camp Lightring’s welcome plaza, gripping a folder with sweaty fingers while a dozen people buzz around like caffeinated hornets, is already pushing the edge of my tolerance.

“Clara Monroe?” a woman calls out. Her voice is warm, peppy. Too loud.

I turn and give the smallest wave I can manage without looking rude. “Yes. Hi.”

Julie—she introduced herself in the last email as one of the camp owners—walks over with a bounce in her step and an actual flower crown perched on her head like it belongs there. She’s sunshine in human form. It’s… intimidating.

“My step daughter insisted,” she says, pointing at the flower crown. “Claims I’m Queen of the Camp. Did you find the shuttle okay?”

“I did. Thank you,” I murmur, shrinking half an inch just from eye contact.

Her eyes soften. “We’re so grateful to have you. The botanical project is a big deal for us, especially after all that drama last summer with the lake wards flaring. You’re basically our quiet little miracle worker.”

My cheeks warm. I drop my gaze to the folder and mumble, “I just like plants.”

“Well, you’re in the right place.” Julie beams and gestures toward a winding trail leading into the woods. “We’ve got you set up in the new eco-hub cabin near the Grove—less foot traffic, more peace and quiet. I figured you’d appreciate that.”

I do. A lot.

“Thank you,” I say again, and this time it comes out more like a person and less like a nervous cat.

Julie hands me a map, a staff lanyard, and a reusable water bottle that says Camp Lightring: Where Magic Meets Mud . I love it immediately.

“Follow the trail markers marked green, and you’ll find your cabin. We’ll catch up later, yeah?” she says, already being pulled away by a redheaded woman yelling something about a misprinted swim schedule.

I nod and start down the trail before anyone else can latch on.

The forest path muffles the sound of people behind me. Each step into the green feels like breathing again after too long underwater.

My boots crunch gently over pine needles and gravel. I pause when I pass under an arching branch hung with wind chimes made from broken glass and polished stone. The breeze makes them sing—a song only the trees understand.

When I spot the eco-hub cabin nestled in a semicircle of ferns, I almost cry from relief. It’s small, wood-paneled, and smells faintly of rosemary and damp bark. Perfect.

Inside, there’s a lofted bed, a kitchenette, and a stack of gardening manuals on a shelf near the window. The sheets are green. I drop my backpack and sit on the edge of the mattress, letting my shoulders fall.

“You did it, Clara,” I whisper, not proud enough to smile, but comforted that I made it here in one piece.

By mid-afternoon, I’m unpacked and already slipping into routine. The restoration site is tucked behind a thicket of berry bushes near the southern edge of the Grove. My clipboard has a color-coded zone map, and the mulch delivery arrived before I did. A miracle.

I hum softly as I kneel next to the first overgrown bed and start teasing out weeds. Someone’s been letting this place go wild—vines tangled around ancient stone markers, herbs crowding out the bee balm. It’s chaos. Beautiful, unruly chaos.

A twig snaps behind me.

I jerk upright, nearly driving my elbow into a tomato cage. Spinning around, I squint into the treeline, heart pounding like I’m thirteen again and hiding a broken test in my backpack.

“Hello?” I call. It comes out thinner than I like.

Silence.

I swallow and return to work, but the hairs on my arms stay raised. Maybe a deer. Maybe a squirrel with a weight problem.

“Hey.” A gruff voice behind me makes me yelp and clutch my spade like a weapon.

Spinning again, I see a man—no, a merman —standing a few feet away with arms crossed. His torso’s bare except for a loose linen shirt, soaked from the chest down. Long dark hair pulled back, silver eyes glaring like I’ve personally offended him by existing.

“You Clara?” he asks.

I nod, hand still on my chest. “Y-yes.”

“I’m Ryder. Lifeguard. Julie asked me to tell you—don’t touch any trees that have names carved in the bark. Especially near the Grove.”

“Okay…” I blink. “Is there a reason?”

He stares for a beat too long. “They’re not trees anymore.”

My mouth opens. Closes.

“Right. Got it.”

He grunts and turns, disappearing back toward the lake like some kind of grumpy water ghost.

I sit back on my heels, spade forgotten.

Not trees anymore? What does that mean?

I glance over at the line of trees that mark the edge of the Grove. From this angle, they seem… bigger. A little too still. Like they’re holding their breath.

“Not touching anything,” I mutter. “Not even looking .”

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves in what might be laughter.

Later, just before sunset, I light the bug-repellent candle on my cabin’s windowsill and sip tea from a chipped mug I found in the cupboard. It’s lemon balm, and it tastes like memory.

I open my dad’s seed journal—the only thing I grabbed from his house before I locked the door for good. His handwriting curls across the pages like vines. “No such thing as lazy growth,” he used to say. “Only unobserved.”

I stare out the window at the Grove. Just beyond the ferns, the trees sway, slow and solemn.

I don’t know what I’ve stepped into here. But something tells me this place isn’t just old—it’s alive in ways I can’t explain.

And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel alone.