The mist thickened through the night, curling around every tree and fencepost with unnatural stillness. Not even the breeze moved. As though the entire garden was being held in breathless anticipation.
Lyra stood guard by the greenhouse, eyes narrowed as the white veil rolled over the crops. Beside her, Elliot clutched a lantern. The flame inside sputtered once, then steadied—but its glow barely touched the fog.
"Stay close," she whispered.
They moved slowly, careful not to step beyond the cleared pathways. The soft squish of mud beneath their boots was the only sound—until the whispers came again.
They weren't loud. They weren't even fully formed. Just syllables—half a word here, a stutter of breath there. But they had weight. Elliot felt each one as if someone had spoken into his bones.
"Mael…"
"Fenn…"
"...ilora…"
He shuddered. "Do you recognize them?"
Lyra's eyes shimmered briefly, her fingers twitching as though searching invisible threads. "Some. A few. But they're not names of the living anymore."
They followed the trail past the orchard to the southern fence. And there, half-buried in the soil, was something neither of them expected: an old wooden marker. Weathered beyond recognition, almost crumbling. But carved into it was a symbol—a circle with three roots descending.
"Grave?" Elliot asked, brushing dirt off it.
Lyra nodded. "More than that. A binding mark."
"Binding what?"
"Memory."
She crouched and touched the marker gently. As her fingers made contact, the whispers grew louder—not just names now, but feelings. Regret. Joy. Fear. Longing. All tangled like overgrown vines in the earth. And underneath it all, something deeper. A quiet pull.
"They were trying to preserve something," Lyra murmured. "Someone planted memory into the soil like seeds. Hoping it would survive Stillfall."
"And it did?"
Lyra didn't answer at first. "It's not just surviving. It's growing."
They returned to the shelter at sunrise, but neither of them slept. The mist lingered into daylight, and none of the plants in the southern field would respond to Lyra's voice.
By afternoon, strange sprouts appeared—spiraled black vines with silver tips, rising from where the marker had been.
And from beneath them, came a single voice. Clear, like it had always been there:
"You are not the first."