The morning after they wove the ivy, Wren woke to birdsong and a strange stillness that hummed just beneath the quiet. The wind had shifted. The forest felt lighter—as if it, too, had been holding its breath and had only just now remembered to let it out.
She wandered outside the little cottage where she and Lark had been staying. The glade was soaked in a golden haze. Lark wasn't beside her, but he wasn't far. She could feel it—some gentle tug in her chest, like the echo of a heartbeat that no longer needed words to explain itself.
But today, something was different. She felt it before she understood it.
Something—or someone—was calling.
Wren followed the pull through the trees, deeper into the woods than they usually wandered. The path had become unfamiliar, yet not frightening. Each leaf underfoot seemed to know her. Branches curved to make way. She was being led.
At last, she came to a small hollow hidden in ivy, where mist curled lazily like breath in the cool. In the center stood a single stone, smooth and round, with a crack down its middle that had been filled with blooming moss.
She knew this place.
Once, she and her sister Elara had come here to dream.
Wren stepped closer and knelt by the stone. The mist whispered around her ankles.
"Elara?" she whispered into the hush.
Nothing answered—except a sudden, soft breeze that carried the scent of honey and herbs. It was the scent Elara always wore. The one that lingered long after her footsteps vanished. The one that Wren had chased through memory but never quite found.
And then—there it was.
A laugh.
Barely audible. Faint as moonlight.
She turned.
And there, just at the edge of the clearing, stood the ghost of Elara's smile.
It wasn't a ghost in the frightening sense. No shrouded figure, no pale face. Just a glimmer—like a memory made visible. Like a dream that had taken shape for just a moment too long.
Wren's breath caught. Her eyes brimmed.
"Elara," she said, her voice thick.
The smile flickered, then grew warmer. Brighter.
"I missed you," Wren whispered, heart trembling.
The breeze danced, tugging gently at Wren's hair.
"I kept looking for you in the wrong places," she continued. "In the trees. In the sky. But I never came back here."
The smile remained. Unmoving. Eternal.
"I wanted to hate you for leaving," Wren admitted. "But then I remembered all the times you stayed. All the times you put your hand in mine and made the world feel small and safe and wild all at once."
The clearing filled with warmth, not from the sun—but from something deeper. A love that had never really left. A presence woven into the roots and soil and the very breath of the forest.
"I'm sorry I didn't understand sooner," Wren said. "That you had to go. That your magic was meant for something more."
A single leaf drifted down from above and landed in her lap—perfect, pale, and shaped like a heart.
Wren smiled through her tears. "I know now."
And just like that, the ghost of Elara's smile faded—not in sadness, but in peace.
The mist curled one final time around Wren's fingers, then vanished with the wind.
She sat there for a while, cradling the memory, until the quiet no longer felt heavy. When she finally rose, she felt stronger—not because the pain was gone, but because it no longer ruled her.
As she made her way back through the forest, she caught sight of Lark standing by the riverbank, skipping stones.
He turned when he saw her, brow furrowed. "You okay?"
Wren nodded, and the ghost of her smile—one so long buried—rose gently to the surface.
"I saw her," she said softly.
Lark didn't ask how. He simply stepped toward her and held out his hand. She took it.
Together, they stood by the river and watched as the water carried each stone away, ripples fading into light.
And in Wren's heart, Elara's smile lingered—not as a ghost, but as a promise: That some loves never leave. They just change shape.