The morning mist hadn't yet lifted when Laurel stepped into the Whisperwood grove, her satchel creaking softly against her hip. The oaks towered like patient old librarians, their bark riddled with familiar patterns—lines and loops that usually felt more decorative than dire. But not today. Today, they shimmered faintly, as if exhaling moonlight in defiance of the sun.
She paused by the central tree, the one Bram called the "Mother Oak," and tilted her head. There it was again—that almost-whisper, like wind rustling parchment. Laurel narrowed her eyes, heart thudding just a little faster. Runes pulsed beneath her fingertips, glowing in a rhythm too deliberate to be natural.
"Rowan?" she called softly. "Bring the scribing stone, would you?"
The red-haired apprentice jogged over, breath fogging in the cool air. "It's glowing again?" Her voice carried that buzzing excitement unique to those who hadn't yet been burned by magic's pranks.
"It's writing," Laurel said, eyes not leaving the bark. "Look."
The light etched itself line by line, like a calligraphy quill dancing across an invisible page. A stanza emerged—crooked but unmistakably poetic:
"By leaf and line, by root and rhyme,What's buried deep awakens time.Speak kindness thrice beside the spring—The grove shall hum, the runes shall sing."
Rowan let out a low whistle. "That's a riddle. And it rhymes. All good riddles rhyme."
Laurel nodded slowly. "And it's giving instructions."
"Should we do it? Speak kindness?" Rowan was already bouncing slightly on her toes.
Laurel hesitated, brushing a curl from her forehead. "Not yet. If the grove's giving riddles, we need to understand why. Magic this old doesn't just wake up for fun."
A loud, sleepy yawn interrupted them—Pippin, sprawled on a mossy rock, eyes half-lidded. "Or maybe it does. Plants get bored too, you know."
Back at the apothecary, Laurel laid the transcription on the counter beside an open copy of the Eldergrove Grimoire. Rowan leaned over her shoulder, eyes wide. "You think the spring in the riddle is the Whisperwell?"
"It's the only one sacred enough," Laurel murmured, tapping a sprig of dried balmroot against her lip. "It's where we leave spirit offerings after solstice rites."
Pippin, perched indignantly atop the herb jars, swished his tail. "You could try whispering pleasantries to your tea kettle and see what happens."
"I already do," Rowan said. "It never hums."
"It would if you cleaned it," Pippin muttered.
Ignoring them, Laurel leafed through the Grimoire. She found a note, years old and smudged at the edges: "Runes dormant beneath bark may awaken during times of communal shift. Respond with grace." It was written in her mentor's looping script.
"We'll go at dusk," she decided. "Bring balmroot, lavender, and a feather."
"A feather?"
"Spirits like tokens," Laurel said. "And if we're being asked to speak kindness... it should feel like a gift."
Rowan's grin stretched ear to ear. "Can I bring the ribbon that sings?"
Laurel chuckled. "Only if it doesn't start a duet with the breeze again."
Dusk painted the grove in amber and violet, each ray catching on bark and branch like spilled candlelight. Laurel knelt beside the Whisperwell, her hands cupped around a small bowl of water sweetened with honey. Rowan sat cross-legged nearby, cradling the singing ribbon like a nervous pet.
"Alright," Laurel said. "Three kind things. Keep it honest."
Rowan nodded solemnly, then turned toward the spring. "You glow prettily at sunset," she whispered. "Your water never tastes like frogs. And you kept my secret when I cried here."
The spring gave no sign of acknowledgment, but the ribbon let out a soft, harmonic sigh.
Laurel leaned in. "You've always made the mint grow stronger. You remember names better than I do. And you kept the frogs from chewing the thyme."
A ripple shimmered across the surface. The nearby oaks groaned softly—runic light blooming across their trunks like morning dew catching fire. The bark pulsed and rearranged until a second verse shimmered into view.
"The path you seek lies not in haste,But roots that know their silent place.In soil and seed, truth waits to rise—A bloom of thought beneath old skies."
Rowan gasped. "It's answering us."
"No," Laurel said, a smile pulling at her lips. "It's continuing the poem."
Pippin padded forward, tail curling. "If the trees start composing a ballad, I expect a verse about my heroic napping."
They remained seated until the last of the runes faded, replaced by the soft hum of crickets waking. Laurel didn't move immediately. Her fingers traced the edge of the bowl in her lap, mind turning the riddles over like smooth stones in a stream.
"It's not just poetry," she said quietly. "It's a guide. The runes are leading somewhere."
Rowan perked up. "Like a quest?"
"More like... an unburied memory. Something the grove wants us to find. Or remember."
She stood, dusting her palms. "Tomorrow we dig. Not literally—yet. But I want to check the south edge of the grove. There's a hollow there, old enough to predate the village."
Pippin twitched an ear. "You mean the spot that smells like fermented bark and regret?"
"That's the one."
As they walked home beneath stars tangled in the treetops, Laurel's steps slowed. She glanced back. A faint glow still flickered along one trunk—just enough to form the silhouette of an open eye.
She didn't mention it to Rowan.
Let the grove keep some secrets, for now.
The next morning brought a light drizzle and the scent of moss and cinnamon—Rowan's breakfast tea attempt had gone unusually well. Armed with umbrellas that whispered encouragement and a trowel charmed not to rust, they headed back to the grove.
The hollow at the grove's southern curve wasn't much to look at: a shallow dip hemmed by three ancient oaks and a scatter of mushrooms that smelled faintly of walnuts. But Laurel crouched at the center, eyes scanning the ground.
"There," she said, pointing at a lichen-covered stone barely visible beneath the soil. Rowan brushed it off, revealing a single rune—simpler than the ones on the bark, but unmistakably kin.
"Laurel..." Rowan's voice wavered. "I think this stone's humming."
It was. Faintly, like a memory trying to be recalled. Laurel pressed her hand to it. A warmth spread through her palm—gentle, expectant.
She sat back on her heels. "This is a marker."
"Grave?"
"No. A seed."
Pippin, nestled in Rowan's hood, poked his head out. "You're being metaphorical, right?"
Laurel only smiled.
The afternoon sun coaxed out hidden hues in the grove—rose-gold light pooling in crevices, softening shadows. Laurel sat beside the rune-stone with the Grimoire open on her lap. The melody of rustling leaves had taken on a rhythm she hadn't noticed before—subtle, repeating every few minutes like breath.
She read aloud from an old entry, her mentor's words etched in faded ink: "Some runes do not reveal what is hidden, but rather where to listen."
"Listen to what?" Rowan asked, chin on her knees.
"Whatever the grove wants us to remember."
They spent the next hour in stillness, not quite meditating, not quite napping. When the wind shifted, carrying the scent of rosemary and damp cedar, Laurel knew they'd heard it too—the deep, almost imperceptible hum of contentment. Of something stirred, but not disturbed.
A small sprig pushed up through the loam at the base of the stone. Not one Laurel recognized.
She reached out and gently touched its leaf. It thrummed like a heartbeat.
Rowan whispered, "Is that... new?"
Laurel smiled. "It's the grove answering back."
They transplanted the sprig carefully into a shallow pot lined with moss and rune-dusted soil. Laurel placed it by the apothecary's window, where the light always lingered longer in the afternoon. The plant hadn't stopped humming, though now it had settled into a low, content vibration—somewhere between a purr and a lullaby.
Later that evening, as Rowan scribbled notes into her apprentice's ledger and Pippin chased a self-spinning tea strainer, Laurel found herself lingering at the window. The little rune-sprout leaned slightly toward her, its leaves fluttering despite the still air.
She dipped her quill and began a new Grimoire entry:"Discovered seedling marked by grove's runes. Emerged after kindness ritual. Possible link to spirit memory or collective village bond. Responsive. Peaceful."
Below it, she added, "Note: speaks more through presence than petals."
Pippin jumped onto the counter and watched her for a moment. "You're smiling," he said.
"I suppose I am."
"What for?"
Laurel looked out at the darkened grove. "I think it remembered something... and wanted us to remember too."
A week passed, and the rune-sprout flourished with improbable speed. By the seventh morning, it had unfurled three delicate blossoms—translucent and veined with the faintest silvery glow. Laurel brewed a morning tea using just one petal, steeped in rainwater collected from the grove.
The flavor was indescribable—somewhere between sage and nostalgia. She didn't need a second sip to know: this was no ordinary herb.
She stored the rest carefully in a jar etched with protection runes, placed it on the highest shelf, and added a note in looping script: "To be used only in times of memory's need."
That evening, as Willowmere basked in the last rays of a golden day, Laurel sat by the shop's hearth, Rowan asleep on the rug, a blanket of half-folded notes around her. Pippin snored softly on the windowsill. And the rune-blossom pulsed gently from its pot, like a lantern watching over them all.
Rain returned in a soft drizzle the following morning, cloaking the cobblestones in a faint shimmer. Laurel opened the shop windows to let in the scent of damp earth and thyme. A few villagers passed by, nodding their greetings—Bram with a new splatter of soot on his apron, Seraphina with a bundle of glowing ribbons.
She tucked the Grimoire into its drawer and pulled out her travel satchel.
"Off again?" Pippin asked, stretching like a prince on vacation.
"Not far," Laurel replied. "I want to revisit the grove one more time. Just... listen."
He tilted his head. "To what?"
"To see if it says thank you."
Rowan peeked up from her sweeping. "Should I come?"
"Tomorrow," Laurel smiled. "Today it's just me and the roots."
As she walked through the village, the wind nudged her gently along, and the rain parted just enough to let her pass dry. The oaks welcomed her with silence, and when she placed her palm on the rune-marked bark, the warmth returned—familiar, grateful.
She closed her eyes.
It did say thank you.
That night, after the candles had been snuffed and the last of the peppermint steam faded from the kitchen, Laurel stepped outside. The village was asleep—windows aglow with quiet hearthlight, the occasional creak of a shutter the only sign of movement.
She walked barefoot across the herb garden, letting dew kiss her soles. The rune-blossom had begun to hum again, faint as a lullaby. Its light shone through the apothecary window, casting a soft circle on the path.
From somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted. Then another.
She paused, listening.
Wind passed through the oaks like a sigh. And for the briefest second, the grove seemed to breathe.
Laurel wrapped her shawl tighter and smiled, warmed from within. The runes had spoken, yes. But not to warn or scold or command.
They'd remembered her. Remembered the kindness left by generations. Remembered laughter, and tears, and peppermint tea shared under stars.
She went back inside, heart full.
And in the stillness, the rune on the stone pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
The next morning, Laurel found a folded note tucked beneath the blossom's pot. It wasn't in Rowan's handwriting, nor her own. The ink shimmered faintly, as if borrowed from starlight.
"Some memories grow best in silence.Some blossoms bloom for those who listen.Thank you."
There was no signature, no sender—just that quiet, sacred knowing that sometimes, magic responded not with fireworks but with gentle, blooming grace.
She placed the note into the Grimoire with reverence and brewed two cups of rune blossom tea—one for her, one for whatever part of the grove had written back.
When Rowan stumbled in, hair askew, she blinked at the second cup.
"For the spirit?" she asked sleepily.
"For whoever needs it most," Laurel said. Then she winked. "Could be you."
Outside, the blossom glowed faintly.
And Willowmere rested in peaceful, rune-lit dawn.
Later that day, Laurel taught Rowan how to dry a petal without losing its hum. The trick, as it turned out, was not in the temperature or the timing—but in the way one whispered to the leaf while folding it in parchment.
"You have to mean it," Laurel explained, demonstrating the technique. "The compliment, I mean."
"So I can't just say, 'You're a very adequate petal'?"
Laurel snorted. "Only if you want it to sulk."
Rowan took her turn, cupping the blossom delicately. "You're lovely," she whispered. "You made Laurel smile."
The petal shimmered gold before settling into stillness, its hum stored safely inside.
By evening, they had four dried petals tucked into sachets, sealed with thread and good intentions.
Laurel placed one beneath her pillow.
That night, her dreams were of green canopies, old laughter, and a grove that remembered the shape of every footfall it had ever held.
When morning came, a breeze slipped through the apothecary window and rustled the sachet under Laurel's pillow. She opened her eyes to the soft chime of distant windbells—no wind strong enough to ring them, only that quiet magic that lingered where love had been left.
She rose, tied her apron, and placed the last sachet by the door with a note:"For whoever forgets they are remembered."
Outside, the village stirred. A rooster crowed, a baker's oven opened with a puff of enchanted flour, and a ribbon caught on the wind did a polite little dance before flitting down the lane.
Laurel smiled and stepped into the day.