Morning sunlight poured into Eren's room, but it didn't warm him. The whisper from the night before still clung to the air like a shadow, and the welt on his arm had darkened further, veins faintly webbing outward. He pulled his sleeve down quickly when his mom knocked and poked her head in.
"You're up?" she asked, surprised. "Didn't hear your alarm."
"Yeah. Couldn't sleep," he muttered.
Her gaze swept over him, narrowing. "You look pale."
"I'm fine." Too quick. Too defensive.
"Fine doesn't usually mean refusing breakfast," she said, setting a plate on his desk anyway. Toast, eggs, and a glass of juice. "Eat something. You'll collapse at school if you don't."
He nodded absently, waiting for her to leave before shoving the sleeve back up. The mark burned faintly, as if the memory of the vines' grip had etched itself into his skin.
---
At school, he barely registered the day's routine. Talia stuck to his side the whole time, which he was grateful for—even when she nagged. Especially when she nagged.
By lunch, she had stopped bothering to lower her voice.
"We need a plan," she said between bites of pizza, eyes darting around like the cafeteria walls might sprout leaves. "This is escalating. You saw it too last night. That wasn't… just in your head."
Eren nodded slowly. "It's leaking out."
"Leaking out? Eren, it's not a water faucet—it's a carnivorous dimension!"
Her voice cracked loud enough that two sophomores turned to stare. She glared until they looked away.
Eren pushed food around his tray, appetite nonexistent. "The garden wants me back."
"Yeah, no kidding. But what's it doing in our world? And why now? You've been in there before, right? It never followed you like this."
"Because last time, I heard her," he said softly. "Lyra. That changed something."
Talia groaned. "Or maybe you touched a radioactive weed and now you're hallucinating forever."
He gave her a look.
"…Fine," she muttered. "But if glowing tulips start popping up in gym class, I'm blaming you."
---
On the walk home, they cut through the park again. Children played, dogs barked, joggers passed by—ordinary.
Until they reached the fountain.
Today, there was no silver shimmer. But the stone around its base had cracked further, and something green had wormed through—thin shoots, curling upward, impossibly fast. Eren blinked, and they stopped moving.
Talia stared. "Tell me you saw that."
He exhaled in relief. "You see it too."
"Unfortunately, yes. Which means I can't keep telling myself I'm the sane one here."
A little boy ran up then, giggling as he splashed his hands in the water. His mom called after him, distracted on her phone. The vines twitched, curling toward the child's ankles.
Eren's stomach dropped.
"Hey!" he barked, moving instinctively. The boy startled, stumbling back just as his mother hurried over and grabbed his hand.
"What's your problem?" she snapped at Eren, before pulling the boy away.
By the time Eren looked back, the shoots had stilled—just weeds, nothing more.
But his heart thundered. Talia's face had gone pale.
"…It's not just whispering to you anymore," she said slowly. "It's hungry."
---
That night, Eren sat at his desk, staring at the notebook. He hadn't opened it since the writing appeared. Now it sat like a loaded trap, waiting.
Finally, he flipped it open.
Fresh words had sprawled across the page.
> The world is thin. Do you see it?
The roots are everywhere. Do not let them take you before you find me.
His throat tightened. "Lyra," he whispered.
The ink shimmered faintly, as though in answer.
A knock on the door nearly made him jump out of his skin.
"Eren?" his mom's voice called. "You okay in there?"
He slammed the notebook shut. "Fine!"
When silence returned, he pressed his palms into his eyes. The garden wasn't giving him a choice. Every day it crept closer, every night it whispered louder.
And worse—it was starting to endanger other people.
Talia. That kid at the fountain.
How long before it swallowed the whole town?
---
Midnight again.
The fern on his windowsill quivered, then stilled. His curtains shifted though the window was closed. He sat up, heart hammering—half expecting Talia to be outside again.
But it wasn't her.
The glass fogged, letters etching across it in a trembling hand.
C L O S E R
Eren's breath caught.
And this time, he didn't just hear the voice—he felt it. A pull in his chest, sharp and insistent, like a tether yanking him toward the greenhouse.
He stumbled to the window, clutching the sill as though he could anchor himself.
"Stop!" he hissed. "Not here!"
But the letters lingered.
Closer.
The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. His room tilted, the walls fading, replaced for a heartbeat by glass dripping with condensation, vines curling in the corners, petals opening like eyes.
Then—blink—and it was gone. Just his room again.
Eren collapsed back onto his bed, gasping.
The garden wasn't waiting anymore.
It was breaking through.