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DEREK

T he forest sings differently this morning.

It’s not a sound exactly—not birdsong or the breeze, though there’s plenty of that—but something deeper. Like the ground is humming under my boots, low and alive, the kind of vibration you feel more than hear. Like the land knows what day it is.

Opening day.

Again.

And this time, we’re ready for it.

I lean against the newly carved arch at the end of the main camp path, arms crossed, watching the sun spill through the tree canopy in golden shafts.

The scent of pine and sugar blossoms hangs thick in the air, mixing with the faintest whiff of potion smoke and whatever Milo set on fire last night trying to “enhance the welcome runes.”

Hazel sidles up beside me, sipping from her ridiculous goblet-sized travel mug. The one that says “World’s Okayest Witch” and somehow hasn’t cracked despite repeated exposure to spell surges and sarcasm.

She bumps her hip into mine. “One silver says at least three kids cry during orientation.”

I grunt. “Five says at least one turns into a newt.”

“Deal.”

Camp Lightring has tripled in size since last year.

We’ve got a dedicated alchemy dome now, a new enchantment loft with open sky windows for safe spell detonation, and creature habitats that stretch across a whole quadrant of the woods.

The staff cabins have been reinforced. The floating dock doesn’t randomly sink anymore.

Hazel painted murals on the fencing—bright, wild things that move when no one’s looking.

And at the heart of it, the Grove still hums. Quiet. Content.

The first shimmer of the transportation sigils flares just past the treeline, and I straighten.

Here they come.

Kids start arriving in waves, some with arms full of gear, some already casting minor levitation charms to haul their trunks behind them.

One girl, probably ten, steps off a moss-drawn cart with glowing antlers, her boots scuffed and a toad clinging to her shoulder.

A boy immediately trips on his own enchanted suitcase—it sprouts tiny legs and scurries off, prompting him to yell, “IT KNOWS MY SECRETS!” as he chases it.

Hazel snorts. “Already worth it.”

Milo barrels past us, robes askew and grinning like a maniac. “They’re here! They’re tiny! They’re weird! I’m in love!”

He beelines toward a pack of wide-eyed kids and immediately launches into what I can only describe as a glitter-enhanced safety briefing. The words “emergency s’mores” and “unexpected squid summoning” float back toward us.

“Gods help them,” I murmur.

“Gods help us, ” Hazel corrects.

We walk the edge of the field, watching it all unfold.

Campers with wings that haven’t quite figured out aerodynamics.

A half-djinn boy setting off sparks from his palms with every laugh.

A group of siblings all wearing identical cloaks enchanted to mimic the weather—one of them is literally raining.

And standing a little off-center in the crowd, tall and steady, is someone I didn’t expect to see so soon.

Torack.

He looks older. Not fragile, not broken—just worn. The kind of aging that only comes from carrying too much hope and fear in your chest for too long.

Beside him stands Lillian.

Not the little girl who used to draw spell-circles in crayon.

She’s taller now. Composed. Her magic hums around her in quiet, respectful waves, like it’s grown with her and learned not to overwhelm the space she stands in.

Hazel grips my hand without thinking, and we walk to greet them.

Torack’s eyes crinkle. “You’ve built something beautiful.”

“Still has its chaotic charm,” Hazel says. “But yeah. It’s getting there.”

Lillian steps forward, her voice clear and calm. “I’ve been dreaming of coming back.”

Her eyes scan the camp—taking in the kids, the counselors, the magic curling through the trees. “I didn’t think it would feel like this again.”

I look at her closely.

She doesn’t mean the scenery.

She means safety. Belonging.

I know that feeling too well.

“You’re welcome here,” I say. “Always.”

We give them a tour—show them the new wings, the quiet benches under the charm trees, the salamander pond where the water glows pink in the evenings. Lillian smiles at every new spell marker, every mural, every scent of fresh-brewed potion on the breeze.

And I watch Torack watch her.

His daughter.

Alive. Thriving.

Because this place exists.

Later, Hazel and I sit on the steps of the new creature barn, sipping iced tea that’s mildly cursed to never spill, and watch the camp unfold.

Milo is halfway through organizing a duel between a pixie and a very competitive enchanted turtle.

Kids are laughing. Spells crackle faintly. Someone’s levitating a fire pit.

It’s loud.

Messy.

And perfect.

Hazel leans against me, her hair brushing my neck. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? You’ve got that broody stare again.”

I glance at her. “It’s not broody. It’s reflective.”

“It’s broody.”

“Fine. A little broody.”

She nudges my knee with hers. “What are you thinking?”

I look around—at the camp, at the trees, at the people I would’ve once run from.

“At everything we almost didn’t have,” I say softly. “And everything we get to build.”

She doesn’t answer.

Just threads her fingers through mine.

And together, we watch the next generation run headfirst into the magic.

The stars come out early tonight.

They spill across the sky like someone tipped a velvet pouch and let the cosmos tumble loose. The firepit burns low behind me, kids still murmuring stories and secrets around the embers, their laughter drifting like smoke.

Hazel is out by the Grove with Lillian, pointing out the spell-laced roots and gesturing wildly like the over-caffeinated chaos witch she is. Milo’s trailing behind them with a clipboard, furiously taking notes that probably include unicorn doodles and mushroom puns.

I stand at the edge of it all.

Hands in my pockets. Heart in my throat.

And I realize—I’m not waiting anymore.

I’m alive.

Whole.

This place isn’t a second chance.

It’s not a redemption arc or some grand conclusion.

It’s a beginning.

One I never saw coming.

I look out at the lights, the trees, the flickers of magic and joy that keep blooming here like something sacred.

Hazel turns, catches my eye, and smiles like she already knows what I’m thinking.

And I think, it turns out, some things you come back to not to finish—just to start over.