Morning came with the sound of rain.
Eren blinked awake, confused. The forecast had promised clear skies, but outside his window, droplets pattered steadily against the glass. It wasn't a heavy storm—more like a steady drizzle—but it left the streets slick and shining.
He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. For a moment, he thought maybe he'd dreamed it all—the silver flower, the voice, the vines that had come alive around him. But the welt across his arm, faint but raw, said otherwise. The sting lingered like a brand.
The garden wasn't just in the greenhouse anymore.
---
By the time he shuffled downstairs, the smell of toast and coffee filled the kitchen. His mom was already perched at the counter, scrolling through her tablet with her mug beside her.
"You're up early," she said without looking up.
Eren muttered something about not sleeping well as he reached for the toaster.
Her eyes flicked to his arm when he pushed up his sleeve. "What happened there?"
He nearly dropped the bread. "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."
The casualness of her words made them feel heavier. If only she knew.
Eren chewed his toast in silence, the mark on his arm burning under her gaze, and decided not to say another word.
---
At school, life carried on as though nothing had changed. Lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, teachers droned about equations and essays. The noise and bustle should have been grounding, but to Eren it all felt distant, like he was listening from the bottom of a pool.
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice Talia until she dropped her tray onto his table at lunch, making his apple roll across the surface.
"You look like death," she said flatly, plopping down across from him.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"I'm serious, Eren. Did you even sleep?"
"Barely."
She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Because you kept hearing her, didn't you?"
His fork froze halfway to his mouth. "…Yeah."
Talia groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Unbelievable. This is our life now. You're haunted by imaginary garden girls, and I'm stuck as your emotional babysitter."
"She's real," Eren said, sharper than he meant to.
Talia peeked at him between her fingers. "You can't know that."
"I do. 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."
She stared at him for a beat, then stabbed a fry with unnecessary force. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said quietly, "but I'm not wrong."
---
The day dragged on. In history, Eren found himself doodling in the margins of his notes—not knights or spaceships like usual, but vines. Twisting, curling shapes that seemed to loop into letters he didn't recognize.
When the bell rang, he stared down at the page, chilled. He didn't remember drawing half of it.
---
On his walk home, the strangeness deepened.
The sky was clear, a soft lavender dusk settling over the town. But as he crossed the corner by the old oak tree, he stopped dead.
A cluster of weeds had pushed through the cracked pavement. Nothing unusual—except for the faint shimmer along their leaves, tiny specks of light like fireflies trapped in the veins. He blinked, and the glow winked out.
A moment later, the oak's bark rippled, as if something beneath the surface was crawling.
Eren stumbled back, heart thudding. When he looked again, the tree was perfectly still.
Closer.
The whisper brushed his mind, and he spun around—only to find Talia jogging up with her backpack bouncing.
"You walk too fast," she complained. "Wait—what's wrong with your face?"
Eren swallowed. "You didn't see it?"
"See what?"
"The… never mind." He forced his voice steady. "Nothing."
Talia narrowed her eyes. "You're the worst liar I've ever met."
He managed a weak laugh. "Guess I am."
---
That night, the world felt thinner.
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 perfectly still.
Eren sat up, pulse hammering. "Hello?" he whispered.
For a second, silence.
Then—soft as a sigh—the fronds brushed together, almost like words.
Closer.
His throat went dry. He pressed a hand to his arm where the welt still throbbed faintly warm. Was this real? Or just his imagination replaying the voice in his head?
He pulled the fern closer, watching it like it might spring to life. The fronds didn't move again. But when he leaned back, something on his desk caught his eye.
His grandmother's old journal, the one he'd salvaged from the attic weeks ago. He hadn't touched it in months, but now it lay open, as though someone had turned the pages while he slept.
The final entry stared back at him in her spidery handwriting.
The garden listens.
His fingers hovered above the page. He hadn't left it open. He was certain.
The floor creaked outside his room. Eren's head snapped up, heart racing.
"Mom?" he called.
No answer. Just silence.
Slowly, he closed the journal and shoved it back into his drawer, his skin crawling.
---
Sleep came reluctantly, dragging him under only after hours of tossing. But even there, the garden was waiting.
He dreamed of vines curling across the ceiling, of glowing flowers opening in the corners of his room. And through it all, Lyra's voice threaded soft and steady.
"Closer," she whispered.
When he reached for her, the garden reached back.