Page 28

THORN

T he festival’s lanterns are still flickering in the trees.

Even now, two days later.

They’ve dulled, softened, floating more like memories than light.

But I don’t put them out.

Not yet.

Not while Clara’s still here.

She hasn’t told me out loud. Not directly. But I heard Julie talking to Callie by the water barrels, her voice pitched just low enough to pretend she wasn’t hoping I’d catch it.

“National Eco-Magical Integration Grant. Full ride. Research funding, travel. A real team.”

And Clara’s name tied to it like ivy on old stone.

I felt it like a vine snapping in my chest.

Didn’t say a word.

Just walked back into the Grove and let the silence settle over me like a second skin.

Now, I’m kneeling by the heart tree. The roots here still pulse strong—restored, solid. It breathes around me like a heartbeat, slow and deep.

I press my hand to the soil.

It welcomes me.

But the magic’s shifted .

It’s not pulling me downward anymore. It’s not gripping my spine like it used to.

It’s easing.

Loosening.

The Grove is changing again.

Because she changed it.

And now it’s letting go.

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 whole talking about your feelings thing, huh?”

“I wasn’t made for it.”

She shrugs. “So make yourself now.”

“I don’t want her to not go,” 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.

Not yet.

So I don’t.

I just wait.

For the moment I’ll have to.

I don’t sleep.

Just listen to the Grove breathe and feel the hours stretch like vines across the night.

By the time dawn kisses the treetops, I know what I have to do.

She’s already at the seedling beds when I find her—kneeling in the morning light, sleeves rolled, hands sunk into rich soil. She hums under her breath, soft and absentminded.

The moment I speak, she startles.

“Clara.”

She looks up, curls catching the light, eyes wary in that way that says she already knows.

“I heard,” I say, steady as I can. “About the grant.”

Her face stills.

Then she nods, slow. “I was going to tell you.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches.

I step forward, kneel across from her, careful not to crowd.

“It’s a good opportunity,” I say.

She watches me closely. “It’s… a lot. Big city labs. Teams. Travel. Real influence.”

I nod.

“You’d be great.”

My voice holds.

Barely.

She swallows, searching my face. “Are you okay?”

I force a small smile. “I’m proud of you.”

I don’t say: I’m breaking.

I don’t say: Please don’t go.

Because I’m not that selfish.

And she’s not mine to keep.

She studies me like she’s trying to read something carved under bark.

Not just looking— seeing .

And then, quiet as ever, she says, “What do you want?”

The question knocks the breath out of me.

Because I’ve been preparing to let her go.

Every moment since I heard about the grant, I’ve been packing away feelings like old runes, telling myself this is what love means—letting her fly without clipping her wings.

But now, here she is.

Offering me a moment I never thought I’d be brave enough to take.

My throat is dry.

My hands still.

And for a heartbeat, I think I’ll say nothing.

“You,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen.

I say it again, firmer this time. “ You. I want you , Clara.”

She steps around the seedling beds slowly, like one wrong move might break the spell.

When she reaches me, she touches my face with both hands.

And I lean into it like a man who’s been waiting lifetimes.

“I was never going to leave without saying goodbye,” she breathes.

“You were never going to leave at all,” I murmur, voice thick. “Not really. Because I’d follow.”

And then she kisses me.

Just two hearts finding rhythm in a Grove that finally, fully, blooms around us.

Vines unfurl above our heads.

The moss glows under our feet.

The wind dances with petals that weren’t there a moment ago.

And when we part, her forehead rests against mine, breath mingled, eyes shining.

“So what now?” she whispers.

I take her hand.

“We grow,” I say.