The morning after, the world looked painfully ordinary.
Sunlight poured across Eren's desk, glinting off the half-finished math homework he'd abandoned the night before. His alarm blared for the third time, and he slapped it silent without looking. Normally he would've stumbled out of bed, late for school, but today he just sat there, staring at the faint red welt across his arm.
The vine's touch.
Not a dream.
He turned his wrist, half-expecting the mark to fade, but it stayed—a line of proof that last night had happened. He'd heard her voice. Lyra. Even now, the memory of her whisper brushed his mind like the echo of a breeze.
Closer. Be careful.
The words had followed him into sleep, and into waking.
---
By the time he dragged himself downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and toast. His mom was already at the counter, scrolling on her tablet.
"You're up early," she said, surprised.
"Couldn't sleep," Eren muttered, grabbing a piece of toast.
Her gaze flicked to his arm. "What happened there?"
Eren nearly dropped the toast. "Oh—uh, scratch. From the greenhouse. Rusty nails, maybe."
"Be careful," she warned automatically. "That place isn't safe. I told your grandmother a hundred times she should've torn it down."
Eren swallowed. The words felt heavier than she knew.
---
At school, life marched on as if nothing had changed. Lockers slammed, people shouted across hallways, teachers launched into lectures about equations and essays. But Eren's mind was elsewhere.
Talia cornered him at lunch, tray slamming onto the table hard enough to make his apple roll.
"You look like death," she said bluntly, plopping into the seat across from him.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. Did you even sleep?"
"Barely."
She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Because you kept hearing her, didn't you?"
Eren froze mid-bite. "…Yeah."
Talia groaned and covered her face with her hands. "Unbelievable. This is our life now. You're haunted by imaginary garden girls, and I'm apparently the only sane one left."
"She's real," Eren said, sharper than he meant to.
Talia peeked at him between her fingers. "You can't know that."
"I do." He lowered his voice too, leaning closer. "Last night, when that flower bloomed, I didn't just hear her voice. I felt it—like she was right there beside me. Like the garden was letting me borrow her presence for a moment."
Talia stared at him for a beat, then stabbed a fry with unnecessary force. "You're impossible."
"Maybe. But I'm not wrong."
---
The rest of the day dragged. By the time Eren was walking home, the sky was dimming, a soft lavender dusk settling over the streets.
That was when he noticed it.
The garden.
It wasn't here—not really—but its fingerprints were showing.
A cluster of weeds had pushed through a sidewalk crack, blooming with faint bioluminescent flecks, just for an instant, before dimming as though embarrassed. On a passing oak tree, the bark rippled like something beneath it had shifted.
Eren froze. He rubbed his eyes. Everything looked normal again—just weeds, just bark.
Still, his pulse thundered.
Closer.
He spun, half-expecting Lyra to be standing behind him. But it was just Talia, jogging up with her backpack swinging.
"You walk too fast," she puffed. "Wait—what's wrong with your face?"
Eren swallowed. "You didn't see it?"
"See what?"
"The—" He stopped himself. If she hadn't noticed, maybe it was just him. Maybe the garden was choosing what to reveal.
"…Nothing," he muttered.
Talia narrowed her eyes. "You're the worst liar I've ever met."
He forced a weak laugh. "Guess I am."
---
That night, the ordinary world felt thinner than usual.
Eren lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house creaked in the summer heat, cars hissed past outside, the neighbor's dog barked. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
And yet—
On the windowsill, the little fern his mom kept twitched, its fronds shifting as though stirred by a breeze. But the air was still.
He sat up, heart thumping. "Hello?" he whispered.
For a second, silence.
Then—soft as a sigh—the fronds brushed together, almost like words.
Closer.
Eren's throat went dry.
He pressed a hand to his arm where the vine had grazed him. The welt was still there, warm under his touch. He didn't know if it was real magic or just his imagination replaying the voice in his head.
But one thing was certain. The garden wasn't staying in the greenhouse anymore.
It was finding him.
And it wasn't going to stop.