Elowen had always loved her mother's garden.
In the daylight, it was a gentle place—blooming with soft blues, pinks, and whites, dotted with wild herbs and sleeping bees. But at twilight, it changed. The shadows stretched longer, and the flowers seemed to listen. The whole garden felt like it was holding its breath.
That evening, the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting amber light over the world. Elowen knelt between rows of moonflowers, her hands in the soil. She wasn't really planting. She was thinking—waiting.
Waiting for the wind to speak again.
Waiting for Amara.
She had come every night since they'd met. Quiet, hopeful, heart fluttering—but Amara hadn't returned. Not to the glade. Not to her dreams.
Just the feathers.
Elowen now had three of them. Each one left in a place that felt secret. One in her satchel. One tucked beneath her pillow. One found at the edge of the brook near the willow tree.
And always the same soft pulse of warmth when she touched them.
She didn't know what it meant. But she clung to them like tiny pieces of a puzzle she wasn't yet ready to solve.
As the light faded, Elowen rose to her feet and wandered toward the back of the garden, where the flowers grew wilder and the path curved away into a thicket of roses. Few people went there—it was overgrown, thorny, and quiet. But she loved it. It felt older, like it remembered things the rest of the garden had forgotten.
She stepped between the rosebushes, careful of the thorns. The scent here was heavy, dreamy. Time felt strange—like it moved slower. She reached the little stone bench hidden at the center and sat down, letting her hands fall into her lap.
And that was when she saw her.
Amara stood in the shadows, not far from the rose arch.
Her silver hair was loose, and her eyes were darker than before—soft, but unreadable. She didn't move. Didn't speak. She simply watched Elowen, like she was afraid to step closer.
Elowen's breath caught. "You're here."
Amara's voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to be."
Elowen stood slowly, brushing dirt from her skirt. "But you are."
The breeze stirred the roses, and a petal fell between them.
"You shouldn't look for me like this," Amara said. "It makes the forest restless."
"Why?" Elowen asked. "Is it wrong to care?"
Amara looked down, her expression unreadable. "It's dangerous."
Elowen took one cautious step forward. "Not everything beautiful has to be safe."
That made Amara's lips twitch—almost a smile.
She finally stepped out of the shadow and into the pale light. "You remind me of someone," she said softly.
"Who?"
"My sister," Amara said. "Long ago."
"What happened to her?"
Amara's eyes flickered. "She forgot me."
Elowen didn't know what to say to that. Her heart ached, not just for Amara—but for whoever she used to be. There was something broken in her, something stitched together with light and silence. Elowen wanted to reach across the space between them and touch it. Gently. Carefully.
Instead, she said, "You don't have to be forgotten again."
Amara tilted her head. "Don't make promises your heart can't carry."
And yet, she stepped closer.
The garden held its breath as the distance between them narrowed.
"Why me?" Elowen asked. "Why now?"
Amara looked at her for a long time. Then, "Because you still believe in things most people stopped seeing."
"I see you," Elowen whispered.
The roses swayed, and a few petals danced around their feet. Amara reached out slowly, as if testing the air, and brushed the back of her fingers against Elowen's cheek.
It was the lightest touch Elowen had ever felt—like the wing of a moth.
"You're warm," Amara said. "I forgot what that felt like."
And then, just as gently, she stepped back.
"I can't stay long," she said. "The garden only lets me in when it chooses."
Elowen wanted to ask what that meant, but she nodded instead. Her heart was too full to speak.
Amara turned toward the roses, her figure soft in the moonlight.
"When the hollow tree speaks again," she said without looking back, "don't be afraid to answer."
Then she vanished into the thorns and shadows, leaving behind only the scent of roses and the ache of something almost touched.
Elowen stood alone, hand to her cheek, her heart fluttering.
And on the stone bench behind her, a fourth silver feather waited—still warm.