LightReader

Chapter 11 - When the ordinary breaks

The morning sunlight looked soft and harmless when it spilled through Eren's curtains, but the welt on his arm said otherwise. The line had darkened overnight, bruised around the edges, and though it didn't ache the way it had yesterday, it pulsed faintly under his skin—as though the garden had left a mark deeper than surface flesh.

He pulled his sleeve down to cover it. No way he was explaining that at breakfast.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already humming with the comfortable chaos of his mom's routine. The smell of scrambled eggs filled the air, the toaster clicked loudly, and the sound of her favorite news podcast droned from the tablet propped up on the counter.

"Morning," she said without looking up, voice brisk as she flipped eggs.

"Morning," Eren muttered, grabbing toast.

"Math test today, right?"

"Mm-hm."

"Don't mumble." She finally glanced over her shoulder—and froze. Her brow furrowed. "You're pale. Did you sleep?"

Eren hesitated. "Sort of."

She set down the spatula, concern sharpening her face. "Sort of? Are you sick?"

He shook his head quickly, forcing a weak grin. "Just… stayed up too late. Homework."

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could press, the toaster popped and distracted her. He let out a breath of relief.

Normal. He needed normal.

But when he bit into the toast, his jaw locked. The taste was wrong—earthy, metallic, like soil clinging to roots. He gagged, dropping the slice back to the plate.

"What's wrong?" his mom asked, alarmed.

"Burnt," he said quickly, though it wasn't. He pushed the plate away. "I'll grab something at school."

She frowned, but didn't argue.

As he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out the door, his hand brushed the fern on the windowsill. The fronds twitched under his fingers, curling as if in greeting.

Closer.

His chest tightened.

---

By the time Eren reached school, the memory of the fern's whisper still clung to him. He spotted Talia leaning against the lockers, earbuds in, scrolling on her phone.

"You look worse than yesterday," she said without looking up.

"Thanks," Eren muttered, shoving his bag into the locker.

She pulled an earbud out and gave him a sharp look. "Did you hear her again?"

He froze, then nodded slightly.

Talia groaned. "Great. Love that for us." She shoved her phone away. "You're officially a haunted house in sneakers."

Before he could reply, the bell rang.

---

First period dragged. The whiteboard was covered in equations, the teacher droned about linear functions, and Eren tried—tried—to focus. But his pencil wouldn't stay still. His hand kept twitching, sketching lines across the margin of his notebook.

Not numbers. Not shapes. Vines. Twisting, curling, looping into patterns that shouldn't exist. The lines overlapped until they formed a shape he recognized too late—an eye, staring back at him.

The pupil pulsed faintly silver.

His breath caught. He slammed the notebook shut, pulse hammering.

"Problem, Mr. Hale?" the teacher asked.

"No," Eren croaked.

Talia leaned over from the next desk, whispering harshly. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he whispered back, but when he opened the notebook again, the page was blank.

---

At lunch, the cafeteria felt unbearably loud. Trays clattered, kids shouted, chairs scraped, but Eren heard only the low hum threading beneath it all. The same hum that filled the garden's clearing.

He stared at his food—mashed potatoes, corn, something vaguely resembling chicken—and his stomach churned. The corn twitched. Just for a second. A faint glimmer rippled along the kernels before fading.

He shoved the tray away.

Talia raised a brow. "Not hungry?"

"Not for that."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Tell me."

So he did. Quietly, quickly, describing the toast that tasted like soil, the fern whispering, the notebook sketches.

Talia listened, chewing her fry with an intensity that said she was definitely not okay but determined not to admit it. When he finished, she sighed.

"Okay," she said. "So the garden is… leaking. Into here."

Eren nodded.

"Cool, cool, awesome, love it." She shoved her tray aside and rubbed her temples. "Eren, this is getting worse every day. First the greenhouse, then whispers, now corn going glow-bug mode in the cafeteria? Where does this stop?"

He swallowed. "It doesn't."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated. Then: "Lyra said closer. Maybe this is the garden's way of… pulling me in."

Talia groaned. "Fantastic. So you're a walking magnet for nightmare botany, and I'm the idiot still sitting with you."

Despite the fear gnawing at him, Eren managed a small smile. "Pretty much."

---

After school, they walked home together. The streets looked normal, but Eren's eyes kept catching flickers. Leaves that shivered without wind. A crack in the sidewalk where moss pulsed faintly, silver veins threading the stone.

At one corner, a dog barked furiously at nothing. Nothing Eren could see, anyway. But he felt it—the weight of the garden's gaze, brushing the edge of reality.

Talia noticed too. "Please tell me I'm not imagining this."

"You're not."

"Great," she muttered. "I was hoping for shared hallucination, but nope. Actual supernatural infestation. Totally fine."

---

That evening, Eren sat at his desk, homework spread before him. He tried to focus, but his pencil moved on its own again.

This time, the vines coiled into words.

Come back.

He dropped the pencil. It rolled across the desk and clattered to the floor. His chest tightened.

Lyra's voice brushed his mind again. Closer.

His bedroom door burst open. Talia stood there, breathless, as though she'd run all the way.

"You too?" she demanded.

Eren blinked. "What?"

She shoved her phone in his face. The screen showed a picture of her living room. At first glance, it was normal—until he saw the wallpaper. The floral pattern had shifted, twisting into vines that spiraled toward a single glowing bloom in the center.

"It wasn't like that five minutes ago," she said, voice shaking. "My mom didn't even notice. She just kept watching TV."

Eren's stomach dropped.

"It's spreading," he whispered.

---

Night fell heavy. The house creaked, the air thick with summer heat, but Eren couldn't shake the weight pressing in from all sides.

He sat on his bed, phone in hand, staring at Talia's last message: If this keeps going, we won't be able to hide it anymore.

He started to type a reply—then stopped.

A sound rose in the distance. Not cars. Not dogs. A hum. Low, steady, vibrating through the walls of the house.

The fern on his windowsill stirred, its fronds glowing faintly. The welt on his arm burned.

And then—he heard it.

A whisper, soft as petals brushing stone.

Closer.

Eren stood, breath shuddering, heart racing. He pulled the curtain back.

Outside, his backyard was alive.

Grass swayed though no wind blew. Vines crept across the fence, glowing faint silver. Flowers bloomed in fast-forward, petals unfurling, spilling pale light into the dark.

And in the center of it all—shimmering faintly, impossibly—was the greenhouse. Not across town. Not behind his grandmother's house.

Here.

It flickered like a mirage, but the outline was unmistakable.

Eren's breath caught.

"Lyra," he whispered.

The glow pulsed in answer.

---

Talia's knock on his window nearly made him scream. She crouched on the porch roof, eyes wide, face pale.

"You see it too?" she hissed.

Eren nodded slowly.

The garden had come to them.

And there was no ignoring it now.

More Chapters