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CLARA

T here’s a rhythm to tending things. A slow, steady pattern that wraps itself around your hands until you forget everything else—except what’s in front of you.

On the third day, my boots know where to step before I do. Down the pebble trail, past the wind chime arch. My fingers already ache in anticipation, but it’s the good kind. The doing kind. And I like that better than thinking.

The herb bed’s started responding. The mint isn’t strangling the chamomile anymore, and I swear the nasturtiums have bloomed twice since I mulched them yesterday. They seem… happier. Or maybe I’m projecting.

I kneel, brush damp dirt from my knees, and tuck a stray hair behind my ear.

“Morning, babies,” I whisper to the plants. “Let’s make you pretty again.”

There’s no one nearby to hear me talk to plants. Which is good. Humans make me self-conscious. Vines don’t.

I pull weeds, snip dead heads, and loosen soil with a fork that’s been taped at the handle. It’s peaceful here. Except…

Every so often, I look toward the Grove.

I don’t mean to. But my eyes keep finding it—those tall, impossibly old trees just beyond the stone circle. They hum.

Not literally. Not loud. But something about them vibrates under my skin, like the low buzz of an amp before a speaker kicks on.

Ryder told me to stay away from the carved trees. And I’m trying to listen. I am . But there’s something there. A feeling I can’t shake. Not danger, or even curiosity, exactly.

It’s… like something’s waiting.

Which is stupid. Trees don’t wait. They just are .

Still. I glance again.

The Grove’s edge is only ten feet away. Twenty, tops. A wall of ferns guards its border, but there’s a narrow break in the brush—almost like a doorway. And a vine. Pale green, with silver streaks, coiled loosely around a half-sunken stone.

It wasn’t there yesterday.

I set my spade down, heart thudding.

“Just looking,” I mutter. “Not touching.”

My boots crunch softly over moss as I creep forward. The forest air cools the closer I get, thick with pine and wet bark. I stop just before the tree line and crouch.

The vine’s leaves are shaped like hearts. Stupidly romantic. And maybe a little weirdly poetic, considering I haven’t been kissed in over a year.

I reach out.

A fingertip. Just to study the texture. Not grabbing or pulling—just touching.

The second I make contact, it snaps.

Not the vine.

Me .

A jolt slams through my hand, down my wrist, and into my chest. My breath seizes.

It’s not painful. Not really. But it’s powerful .

Like static electricity and deja vu had a baby and named it after every secret I’ve ever kept.

I stumble back, landing hard on my butt.

“Ow,” I whisper, rubbing my palm. The skin isn’t burned. But it tingles. Like it’s still being held.

The vine curls slightly toward me, slow and deliberate.

I scramble to my feet.

“Okay. Message received. Not touching.”

I back up all the way to the path, still cradling my hand. My heart won’t stop thudding. It’s like… someone whispered my name and I want to hear it again, even though I shouldn’t.

“Clara!”

I jump. Hard.

“Jeez!” I turn to see a tall brunette woman jogging up the trail, clipboard in hand and sweat on her brow. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She laughs. “Sorry! I’m Mags—kitchen lead. Julie said you were the new plant whisperer. Thought I’d bring you the produce list for next week.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “That’s—uh. Thanks.”

She hands me a paper, then squints past my shoulder. “Were you near the Grove just now?”

My stomach tightens. “A little. Just… just looking.”

Mags raises an eyebrow. “Don’t let Ryder catch you. He’s got a zero-tolerance policy for boundary pushers. Last guy that stepped too close ended up with a year’s worth of bad dreams.”

“I didn’t go in ,” I say quickly. “Just… poked a vine.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”

I nod.

“And it didn’t bite you?”

“Kind of? I mean, it zapped me.”

“Whoa.” Mags whistles. “That’s new. Those vines usually only react to magic users.”

“I’m not magic.”

She narrows her eyes at me, not unkindly. “Huh. Weird.”

I swallow. My mouth feels dry. “Should I… tell someone?”

“Nah.” Mags shrugs. “As long as you didn’t lose a finger or trigger a vine riot, you’re probably fine. Just—maybe stick to your side of the line, yeah?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Cool.” She flashes a thumbs-up and jogs off, muttering something about lavender and salad ratios.

I stand there for a minute longer, staring at the spot where the vine had moved.

My hand still tingles.

The next morning, I step into the garden with my thermos of black tea and my usual goal: focus on the work, avoid any more magical zaps.

But something’s different. Something that makes my breath unsettled.

My breath hitches as I pause mid-step.

The vine—the one with the silver-streaked leaves from the Grove—is no longer wrapped around the sunken stone where I first touched it.

It’s here.

Coiled gently on the ground, maybe six feet from my workbench. Not tangled, just… present. Like it moved overnight and curled up to nap near me.

Like a dog or a cat.

My fingers tighten around the thermos. “Okay, that’s—um. That’s not normal.”

I scan the garden’s edge. No footprints in the dirt. Just a neat, leafy trail that stops where the vine now rests.

Something—or someone—is watching me.

I can’t see anything. But the sensation prickles at the base of my neck, like someone’s breath is hovering just behind me.

I turn slowly. Nothing but trees and dappled sunlight and the lazy sway of summer air.

Still, I whisper under my breath, “I see you.”

The Grove doesn’t answer.

But I swear… the vine curls just a little tighter, like it heard me anyway.