It began with a single sprout.
Tiny. Green. Determined.
Auri noticed it the morning after she left Lyra's letter in the willow's hollow. It peeked through the soil right beneath her window, where only shadows used to live. No one had planted it—at least not recently. But something in it felt familiar, like a memory she hadn't yet recalled.
She knelt beside it and traced its leaves with a fingertip. They shimmered faintly, silver-veined, soft. Magic stirred beneath them—gentle and old. Auri smiled. "You're not from this world, are you?"
The sprout quivered as though it understood.
As days passed, it grew fast. Unnaturally fast. By the fourth sunrise, its roots had reached beneath her cabin. By the sixth, it had stretched into vines, curling up her walls, leaving soft blossoms like kisses on wood.
Talon noticed it first. "That's not normal."
Auri chuckled, brushing a petal that had bloomed near her door. "Nothing in this forest is."
"But this... this feels like her."
Auri paused. He was right. The scent of the flowers carried Lyra's calm. Their colors changed depending on the light—sometimes gold like dawn, sometimes violet like dusk. And the vines never strangled, only wrapped gently, like they knew the rhythm of her home.
Hope came by on the seventh day, her hands full of water pails and woven herbs. "Your grief bloomed," she said simply, sitting beside Auri.
"Is that what this is?"
"Your heart's garden. Born of pain. Nurtured by memory."
Auri ran her fingers through the soft moss that now grew near her steps. "But it doesn't hurt to look at it."
Hope smiled gently. "That's how you know it's yours."
Together, they spent the afternoon tending to it. They planted tiny seeds near the window ledge—seeds Auri had found in Lyra's old satchel. She hadn't known what they were, but something told her they'd belong.
As the sun dipped behind the trees, casting golden shadows across the clearing, Auri lit a small lantern and sat by the vines.
She remembered how Lyra used to hum without words while braiding flower crowns. She remembered how her fingers would brush Auri's wrist and linger—soft and unsure. How she'd never said "I love you" with words, but always with the way she looked back one more time before parting.
This garden wasn't about loss.
It was about love—rooted deep, rising again.
That night, Auri dreamed of the first moment they met. Only this time, Lyra wasn't fading. She was laughing, spinning barefoot through the glade, her silver eyes bright and full of life. She looked back, reached out a hand, and said, "Come see what we've grown."
Auri woke with tears and a smile.
She stepped outside.
And the garden had bloomed fully.
Every flower was shaped like a memory. Every leaf glowed like a piece of her past she was finally ready to keep.
"My heart's garden," she whispered. "Not hers. Not ours. Mine."
And the wind, soft and full of wonder, seemed to agree.