Page 7

CLARA

I should’ve turned back five minutes ago.

The sun’s dipping low, casting gold across the treetops like someone spilled honey over the sky. But I’m still here, kneeling in the garden bed closest to the Grove. Close enough I can see the runed stone buried halfway in moss. Close enough to feel… it.

The hum again.

It’s stronger this time, like the soil itself is watching me work.

I pat the earth beside the fresh thyme sprout, brushing my hands off on my pants. “Okay, little one,” I whisper. “Don’t die on me.”

A laugh bubbles out of my throat, too soft and too nervous to really land.

I stand slowly and stretch, my spine popping in at least three places. The air feels heavy, like a thunderstorm’s waiting somewhere just past the treeline.

The vine is back today, coiled near the edge of the bed. Not touching, not reaching. Just… present.

“I didn’t bring anything fancy,” I say, voice low. “Just my awkward self and some dirt under my nails.”

It’s ridiculous, talking to a plant like it’s going to answer.

But the Grove has started to feel less like a place and more like a being —a presence curled around the edges of my life.

Still, I start packing up, trying to be respectful of the fading light.

And that’s when it happens.

A voice.

"Clara."

It’s not close.

It’s not loud.

But it cuts straight through my chest like a thread pulled taut.

I freeze.

Every instinct I have screams run . Go. Now.

My breath sticks in my throat as I whip around, heart hammering. No one.

Not a single soul.

Just trees.

Leaves rustling. Wind curling around my neck like a whisper.

I grab my tools in a fist and take a step back.

Then stop.

Because the voice… it didn’t feel threatening.

It felt gentle .

Tentative. Like someone speaking a name they’ve only ever read before.

I swallow hard.

“Who’s there?” My voice wavers like a violin string out of tune.

Silence.

The kind that listens.

“I—I don’t mean any harm,” I stammer. “I swear.”

A pause.

Then, from the trees, barely more than a rumble through stone and root:

"You tend the Grove."

I almost drop the trowel in my hand.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I mean… not officially.”

The trees stir. Something moves behind the veil of vines, just out of sight. Not threatening. Not aggressive.

Just… present.

"Why?"

That one word holds weight, like it’s being asked by someone who’s never had the right to ask questions before.

I blink hard. “Because it’s alive. And beautiful. And hurting, maybe. I don’t know. It just feels like it deserves more than neglect.”

The wind circles me, soft and cool.

Another pause. Then?—

"Most do not see."

I clutch the strap of my bag tighter. “I see what I can.”

The voice sighs.

Not tired. Not bored.

Relieved .

"You may stay."

And just like that, I can breathe again.

I press my lips together and nod, even though I know whoever—or whatever —this is can’t see it.

“I was gonna stay anyway,” I say quietly. “But thank you.”

There’s no answer.

Only the feeling of eyes closing—watching, but no longer trying to hide it.

I finish packing my bag in a blur, heart still fluttering, mind racing. Did that just happen? Was that him ?

I don’t know who him is. Not really. But I know there’s something—or someone—woven into the roots of this place. Someone patient. Someone tired. Someone lonely.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance toward the trees one last time.

“Goodnight,” I say, so soft I’m not sure I actually speak it aloud.

No reply.

But the vine near my boots shifts.

Not a full move. Just a nudge.

Like a nod.

And then I leave, walking faster than I mean to, not because I’m scared—but because I’m afraid if I stay, I’ll start talking again.

And if I talk too long, I’ll never want to stop.

I don’t sleep much that night.

Not because of bad dreams.

Because of a voice.

His voice.

Low and warm and made of old stone and soft dirt. It wasn’t just sound—it was weight. It settled somewhere behind my ribs and hasn’t left since.

I keep hearing it, looping in my head like the echo of wind through pine. You tend the Grove.

I wish I’d said more. Asked his name. Asked why he’s watching. Asked if he’s the one who made the vine curl like it knew my hands before I ever touched it.

But I didn’t.

I ran.

Now, everything else feels… smaller.

The basil I’m supposed to trim? Blurry. The schedule for the new compost delivery? Half-remembered.

“You okay?” Mags asks the next morning as I spill a whole tray of seed packets on the kitchen floor.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, dropping to my knees to collect the scattered envelopes. “Didn’t sleep great.”

She gives me a side-eye but doesn’t push. “You get that kind of hollow look when you’re overthinking things. You know that?”

I shrug. “It’s probably just the weather.”

“Uh huh.” She leans against the counter. “Not a boy thing, is it?”

I snort, louder than I mean to. “Definitely not.”

Mags grins. “Damn. Was hoping for a little scandal. Camp could use it. Everyone’s too well-adjusted lately.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She heads out, still chuckling, and I gather the rest of the seeds with shaky fingers.

I could tell her.

I could tell Julie. Or even Ryder, though I doubt he’d be thrilled.

But every time I think about describing what happened, the words dry up in my throat.

This feels… private.

Too sacred for coffee-break gossip or wide-eyed curiosity.

He spoke to me. Me. Not the camp. Not the staff. Just me .

And something deep inside me—something small and soft and long-forgotten—wants to protect that.

So I tuck it away.

Right next to the ache that’s started blooming whenever I walk back toward the Grove and hope, just a little too much, to hear that voice again.