Page 6

THORN

S he comes every morning now.

Small. Careful. Soft-voiced.

Clara Monroe.

She walks the trail like it’s sacred ground, each step measured, as if she thinks the forest might change its mind about letting her in.

I remain hidden.

A guardian doesn’t need applause.

I watch from the high bend of the elder limb above the vine she favors—Delira’s Twist. It curls eagerly whenever she arrives. Greedy for her touch. Greedy, maybe, for her voice.

She kneels and pours something warm into the soil again. Her compost tea. I can smell the rosemary this time. And cinnamon.

Ridiculous. But the moss near the stone drinks it in like it’s ambrosia.

Her pouch opens next. Seeds. Light ones. She scatters them gently, whispering names I can’t quite hear. She sings under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening. She’s wrong.

I listen to everything .

I was grown for this.

Every day she’s here, the tree at my back shifts .

The ward pulses faintly when she’s near.

I feel it in my core, where the bond between my spirit and the living tree coils tight like a rope around my ribs. When she kneels in that glade, something tugs.

Not painfully. Just enough to make me feel human again.

I don’t like it.

But I don’t stop it.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” she murmurs once, smiling faintly to herself. “Rough night, huh?”

She’s talking to the vine. I know it. But the pulse of warmth under my ribs twists anyway.

She pours a little water into the moss ring, then leans back on her heels, content to just be .

She never asks the Grove for anything.

She only gives.

That’s what I don’t understand.

The other humans—they come to take. Take photos. Take stories. Take power. But she kneels in the dirt and reads aloud from an old journal like she’s feeding a hungry mouth.

Sometimes she brings fruit. A small tomato. A slice of peach. She sets it down like an offering to something bigger than her.

Maybe she’s right to.

I crouch lower, peering between branches.

The tree behind me—the one I’m bound to—vibrates faintly.

It’s not pain. Not sickness.

It’s… anticipation.

As if even it wonders what she’ll do next.

I curl my fingers into the bark at my side. The warmth of her presence makes my hands ache.

She rises, brushing dirt off her pants. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says softly.

Then she does something unexpected.

She waves.

Right at the Grove. Not at a person. Not toward me.

Just… to the woods.

And walks away.

I stare at the spot she stood for a long time.

The moss curls upward.

The vine’s leaves stretch.

And my bond tightens again—gentle, like a hand pressing against my chest.

I’ve watched a hundred seasons pass.

But nothing has ever watched me like she does.

After she leaves, I stay.

I always do.

But this time, something is different.

The Grove doesn’t fall silent like it used to. The hush that usually follows a departure—that weighty return to solitude—doesn’t come.

Instead… the soil hums.

A low, earthy vibration that thrums beneath my feet and settles in the marrow of my chest.

I crouch beside the ward-tree and press my palm to the moss at its roots. It's warmer than it should be this late in the season. The breath of the Grove isn’t fading with the day like usual—it’s gathering .

Drawing something in.

Or someone.

I close my eyes.

Decades. That’s how long the Grove’s been still. Quiet. Balanced on the edge of dormancy. Not dead—but asleep. Content to guard and rest and forget the sound of footfalls that weren’t made by me.

But now...

Now the vines stir before sunrise, the wildflowers bloom in crooked and eager patterns, and even the air feels different. Lighter, and a little less old.

I stand slowly, bark creaking at the joints of my legs. I drag one hand along the spine of the tree behind me, anchoring myself.

I was made for silence. Born of root and runestone, summoned into stillness.

Lately, hope has taken root in my ribs.

Because she comes. She sees. She feels the Grove in a way no outsider has in years.

And worse—worse than any change or break in ritual—I want her to come back.

I want her voice on the wind.

I want her scent in the air.

I want her fingers near the vines, even if it makes them greedy.

The Grove pulses again beneath me.

Like it agrees.

Like I’m not the only one who’s tired of being alone.

As the last of her footsteps fades into the hum of dusk, I move.

Quietly. The trees make space for me, parting branches like a held breath.

I cross the glade where she’s worked, careful not to disturb a single root.

The garden beds are nothing extraordinary to the untrained eye—small rows, patchwork planting, a few mismatched trellises—but when I kneel and press a hand to the soil, I feel it.

She’s been listening to the land.

She layers mulch, not just for moisture but for warmth. She rotates crops without being told. No harsh fertilizers. No cutting corners. Just patience, compost, and heritage seeds passed through hands that understood what living things needed before they asked.

Old methods. Sacred ones.

She’s not just growing plants.

She’s cultivating respect .

I run my fingers through the soil of her lavender bed. It crumbles rich and dark, full of worm paths and air pockets. Breathing. Alive.

A small, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth.

No one teaches this anymore; not since the worlds turned faster and louder and forgot to ask the dirt for permission.

But she remembers.

Or maybe she never unlearned.

I rise and brush earth from my palms. The air around me feels less still, as though the Grove itself is leaning closer to see what I’ll do next.

“She's not like the others,” I murmur to the tree behind me.

The bark doesn't respond.

But the leaves shiver softly, like they agree.