Page 26 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Trick-or-Treat

For the first time, the silence doesn’t feel like exile—it feels like home beneath Mother Tree’s glow.

Chapter

Ten

EDEN

The forest is different in daylight.

Still wild, still ancient. But now every leaf hums like it’s remembering.

We sit at the base of Mother Tree, the air thick with sap and sun. I can feel the roots underneath, shifting slowly, alive.

Everett’s arm wraps around me, warm and steady, his pulse syncing with the slow throb in the earth. The hum between us has softened—less storm, more heartbeat.

For the first time, I’m not trying to explain it away.

The rational part of my mind still whispers about trauma responses and hallucinations, but I let it fade. Logic built the cage I used to live in; love is the key that broke it.

I tilt my head toward him. “So, this is what freedom feels like?”

He half smiles, the light beneath his skin pulsing faintly. “No regulators. No Command. Just you.”

Rook flits above us, tracing lazy circles through the filtered sunlight. Every time his wings shimmer, it sends prismatic color across Everett’s cheekbones. The dragonfly pauses on a nearby branch, its tiny body humming in tune with the tree.

“He’s happy,” I whisper. “If machines can be happy.”

“Rook was never just a machine.” Everett’s hand tightens on mine. “He learned from you before he ever met you.”

A soft laugh escapes me. “You’re saying I’ve corrupted your technology?”

“I’m saying you’ve awakened it.”

The breeze shifts, carrying the faint buzz of distant constructs—metallic, searching, but fading. Everett tilts his head as if listening to an invisible frequency. “They’re retreating for now. The decoys worked.”

“So we’re safe?”

“For this moment,” he says. “Safety isn’t a constant. But peace can be.”

The words settle in me like sunlight through water. I glance up at the lattice of branches, at the orbs pulsing faintly overhead. “You think she knows? Mother Tree, I mean.”

Everett follows my gaze. “She’s always known. We’re just part of her rhythm now.”

Something in the canopy shifts—a subtle shimmer, almost like the tree exhaling. The humming deepens, low and harmonic, surrounding us. A warm pulse moves through the soil, like a slow heartbeat under my palms. I swear it’s approval.

I lean against him, the soft fabric of his flannel brushing my cheek. “What happens next?”

He’s quiet for a long time, tracing a slow circle on the back of my hand. “We build something new. A different kind of signal. One that spreads love instead of control.”

It sounds impossible, and yet the certainty in his voice makes it feel inevitable. Still, I sense a sorrow behind his words, a sense of loss and disorientation.

“What is it?” I ask gently, stroking his cheek.

“No more cloning?—”

“Cloning?”

“Our method of rebirth. It’s how Sentinels have endured for generations, copying consciousness into new vessels, awaiting orders from a homeworld that’s already forgotten us.”