Page 9

CLARA

I start carrying more in my satchel.

A hand trowel, two jars of compost tea, a little woven pouch of dried calendula petals—those are the usuals. But now, tucked in next to the seed packets and my granola bar wrappers, there’s always a book.

Today it’s Soil and Spirit: Companion Planting for Resilient Growth . Not exactly a page-turner for most people, but it reads like poetry to me.

When I step into the Grove, it feels like walking into a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. The air here is thicker somehow, heavier with green, sweet with something floral that isn’t anywhere else on camp grounds.

He’s here.

I don’t see him at first but I feel him.

That ripple in the atmosphere, like the trees lean toward something taller than me. It’s strange how quickly that feeling has become comforting instead of terrifying.

“Hey,” I murmur to the moss. “I brought you something.”

I kneel at the usual spot, next to the vine that always curls in a little when I get too quiet. From my satchel, I pull out the dog- eared book and hold it up like I’m presenting a sacred text to a council of dryads.

“No pictures, sorry. But it’s got my dad’s margin notes, and those are gold.”

Still no answer. Just birdsong and the distant rustle of shifting leaves.

I flip the book open, scan a few lines, and start to read aloud.

“‘The secret to healthy roots is complexity. Plants don’t thrive in isolation—they support one another underground through a vast web of symbiosis. A single seedling may need dozens of unseen allies to survive its first season. Sometimes it’s not the strongest that survives. It’s the one most willing to connect.’”

I glance around, heart fluttering like it always does when I read something that feels too honest.

The Grove doesn’t move. But something in the soil tightens.

I smile. “Pretty, right?”

There’s a shift behind me. A subtle change in light. I don’t turn right away. I’ve learned not to startle the moment. If he wants to be seen, he’ll show himself.

I keep reading.

“‘Companion planting encourages mutual protection and soil health. Basil wards off pests that harm tomatoes. Beans return nitrogen to the soil that corn depletes. Marigolds protect everything.’”

I pause. “I always thought marigolds were the moms of the garden. All bright and bossy.”

That earns me a sound.

Not a laugh, exactly, but a quiet rustle. Like bark flexing.

“I know you’re there,” I say softly. “You don’t have to talk. I just figured you might want to hear something besides me fumbling through apologies.”

The leaves above me sway once, like they’re nodding.

Encouraged, I keep reading, slower now, letting the rhythm do the work. I fall into the cadence of it, and for a while, it feels like the forest breathes with me.

I don’t know how long I go before he speaks.

It’s quiet. Gravel and wind. Like moss wrapped around thunder.

“Read more.”

I freeze.

Then smile into the page. “Okay.”

And I do.

Over the next few days, a rhythm settles in.

I bring books, rotating topics depending on the vibe. Some science-heavy, others more poetic. I read aloud while he listens from the shade, sometimes stepping into view, sometimes just a presence in the leaves. His silence never feels impatient. Only watchful.

And one morning, after I ramble for ten straight minutes about nitrogen-fixing bacteria, I pause to catch my breath, cheeks warm.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “You probably already know all of this.”

Thorn’s voice answers from behind me, closer than usual. “Not this way.”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing just inside the arc of vines, half in sunlight, bark-lined arms crossed.

“You speak of soil like it’s alive.”

I blink. “It is .”

“Show me.”

So I do.

I crouch near the lavender bed and explain how carbon and hydrogen get cycled through decay, how compost heat breaks down proteins, how a teaspoon of good soil can hold more life than a city block.

His head tilts, runes dimming slightly as he processes.

He kneels beside me, brushing one hand along the dirt. “And if I willed this root,” he murmurs, “to twist and hold memory, would it change your findings?”

My breath catches. “You can do that?”

He answers by touching two fingers to the soil. A pale green vine uncoils, tracing a spiral before burrowing back down.

I gape. “Okay. That’s cheating.”

He huffs, just short of a laugh.

“Teach me,” I whisper.

And he does.

In exchange for my talk of pH levels and carbon ratios, Thorn shows me spells whispered in a tongue no human wrote down. Vines that dance to rhythm. Bark that remembers emotion. Seeds that only bloom when touched with joy.

It’s not a trade.

It’s a conversation.

A communion.

And every day, it feels more like we’re speaking the same language—just using different tools.

The next time I see him, I bring peanut butter cookies in a napkin, mostly as a joke.

“You probably don’t eat,” I tell him, setting the napkin on a mossy rock. “But if you ever want to smell like a Girl Scout meeting, this is the way.”

He stares at the cookie like it might recite an incantation.

I burst out laughing.

Loud and bubbling and completely unfiltered.

The vines nearest us bloom.

Thorn blinks slowly at the sudden wave of color, then glances at me with something very close to curiosity.

“You did that,” he says.

“No,” I say between laughs. “That was all you.”

But it wasn’t.

The Grove is responding again, alive and playful and warm in a way that makes something shift behind my ribs.

We sit together near the half-wild garden, sunlight bleeding gold through the canopy above. He begins weaving a vine through his fingers, murmuring words I can’t catch. The strand twists and bends in a slow, elegant dance.

I go quiet.

Not because I feel awkward.

Because I can’t stop watching his hands.

The way they move—steady, fluid, sure—it’s like watching wind thread through the trees. There’s no hesitation. Just rhythm. Grace.

He notices me watching, but doesn’t call it out.

And I don’t look away.