The morning after felt wrong from the moment Eren opened his eyes.
Sunlight slanted through his curtains, bright and ordinary—but his chest knew better. His skin still tingled where the welt on his arm pulsed faintly. His head ached with whispers he couldn't fully catch, like petals brushing against his thoughts.
Closer.
He dragged himself out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, and told himself it was just another school day. Shirt, jeans, bag. Normal. He needed normal.
But when he walked into the kitchen, he knew normal was already gone.
His mom stood by the counter, coffee mug in hand, staring at the fern on the windowsill. The plant leaned toward her, fronds quivering as though trying to speak. She frowned, reached out to adjust the pot, and froze when the fronds curled gently around her wrist.
"Mom?" Eren croaked.
She blinked and pulled her hand back quickly, shaking her head. "Static. Must be the air." She poured her coffee too fast, spilling it, muttering under her breath as though convincing herself.
Eren's pulse thudded. He forced himself to grab toast, though the smell of soil still clung to his memory. His mom didn't comment when he barely ate.
As he left the house, he whispered under his breath: "It's spreading."
The welt on his arm burned in answer.
---
The walk to school was worse.
Sidewalk cracks overflowed with moss that hadn't been there yesterday. A telephone pole groaned faintly, its wood softening as ivy threaded upward in shimmering silver veins. Nobody else seemed to notice. People strolled by with coffee cups, talking on phones, ignoring the strangeness like it was just another piece of the morning.
Eren clenched his fists. Was the garden only showing itself fully to him and Talia? Or were people refusing to see?
He spotted her by the front gate, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. Her expression said everything.
"You saw it too," Eren muttered.
Talia gave him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "The wallpaper in my room's gone feral. My mom thinks it's just peeling. Eren, this isn't just you anymore. It's everywhere."
His throat tightened. "Then we don't have much time."
Talia exhaled harshly, dragging him by the sleeve. "Come on. If we're gonna lose our minds, we might as well do it in homeroom."
---
Classes were unbearable. The hum under Eren's skin wouldn't stop. When the teacher scrawled equations on the board, the chalk trailed faint silver streaks that pulsed before fading. His notebook filled with vines again, no matter how many times he tore pages out.
By second period, whispers tickled his ears. Not Lyra this time—softer, layered, like the garden was trying to tune itself into the world. The voices brushed over him, weaving nonsense phrases that still carried weight. Grow. Bloom. Consume.
At one point, his pencil snapped in his grip. Talia leaned over, whispered, "Stop looking like you're about to hurl. You're scaring people."
He tried. God, he tried. But the air tasted like damp soil, and every time he blinked he saw blossoms unfurling where there were none.
---
Lunch was the breaking point.
The cafeteria buzzed with noise, the clatter of trays, the stink of pizza and mystery stew. Eren sat at the corner table with Talia, trying not to stare at the green beans that pulsed faintly under the fluorescent lights.
"Don't tell me," Talia muttered. "Your food's alive again."
"Not just mine," Eren whispered.
She frowned—then the floor trembled.
At first it was subtle, a low shiver no louder than a cart rolling over tiles. Then the center of the cafeteria cracked. Tiles split with sharp pops, and vines erupted upward, silver-veined and glowing faintly. They coiled around table legs, scattering trays, spilling milk cartons.
Screams broke out. Students bolted from chairs, teachers rushed forward, shouting for calm. But the vines slithered higher, blossoms blooming in fast motion, silver light filling the room.
Eren's chest clenched. The whispers rose, layering into a chorus only he seemed to understand. Closer. Closer. Closer.
And then—just as suddenly as they'd come—the vines sank back. The cracks sealed, blossoms withered to nothing. Within seconds, the cafeteria was ordinary again, except for the spilled food and panicked students.
"What the hell was that?!" someone shouted.
"Earthquake!" a teacher barked, though her face was pale. "Everyone outside, now!"
Eren and Talia exchanged a look.
"Earthquake, my ass," Talia muttered.
---
They sat on the bleachers during evacuation, surrounded by confused, trembling students. Teachers made frantic phone calls. Some kids cried, others laughed nervously, already filming on their phones.
Eren kept his gaze low, afraid that if he met anyone's eyes, they'd see the truth reflected there. That this wasn't an earthquake. That the garden was here.
Beside him, Talia hugged her knees. "We can't cover this up. Everyone saw it."
"Not everyone saw it the same way," Eren said quietly. He pointed to a cluster of kids joking about the "weird power outage."
Talia grimaced. "Denial's a hell of a drug."
"Yeah. But it won't last."
---
The rest of the school day was chaos. Rumors flew—sinkhole, gas leak, prank gone wrong. Classes were suspended after lunch, and students were sent home early.
Eren walked with Talia, the streets eerily quiet for mid-afternoon. People clustered in small groups, talking in hushed tones, pointing to cracks in sidewalks or wilted flowers that hadn't been there before.
Then came the first undeniable rupture.
A car stalled in the middle of the street, its tires sinking as moss surged across the asphalt. The driver shouted, trying to restart the engine, but vines wrapped around the bumper, yanking it down. Pedestrians screamed, scattering.
"Eren," Talia whispered, clutching his arm. "It's not hiding anymore."
Before he could answer, the streetlamps flared. Their metal poles twisted, flowering into branches heavy with silver blossoms. Lights flickered, dimmed, then burst, showering sparks as petals drifted to the ground.
Someone shrieked. Phones were raised, snapping photos, filming video.
No one could deny it now.
---
They ran. Neither of them said where—they just ran, sneakers slapping pavement, lungs burning. The hum in the air grew louder with every step, vibrating through their bones.
When they skidded to a halt at the town square, it was already too late.
The ground split open. Roots exploded upward, tearing through asphalt, curling around benches and lampposts. Buildings trembled as ivy raced up their walls, windows shattering under the pressure.
In the center of the square, the impossible shimmered into being: the greenhouse. Not faded, not flickering—solid, glowing, its glass walls spilling silver light.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some screamed, others fell to their knees. A few just stared, phones trembling in their hands.
Eren's breath caught. He heard her.
Eren.
Lyra's voice. Clear, unbroken, calling him by name.
He stumbled forward, chest aching with recognition. "Lyra?"
The glass of the greenhouse rippled. For a moment, her face appeared—pale, luminous, framed by silver vines. Her eyes locked on his.
"Closer," she whispered. The word carried through the square, echoing in every ear. Some clutched their heads, others fell screaming.
Talia yanked Eren back, shouting, "Are you insane?! Everyone can see this!"
But he barely heard her. The world roared with the garden's presence. Blossoms erupted across rooftops, petals raining like silver snow. The air thickened with pollen that shimmered in the light, dazzling, choking.
People ran, coughed, collapsed. Authorities surged forward—police, firefighters, anyone who could respond. They tried to push the crowd back, but vines lashed out, blocking streets, toppling cars.
The greenhouse pulsed brighter, its hum deafening.
And then—silence.
The petals froze midair. The roots stilled.
The greenhouse flickered once, twice—then vanished, leaving cracked earth and ruined stone in its place.
Screams turned to sobs. Phones kept recording. The town square looked like a war zone.
Eren's knees buckled. Talia caught him, her own face chalk-white.
"Tell me that didn't just happen," she whispered hoarsely.
Eren pressed a trembling hand to his arm, to the welt that burned like fire. His voice was hollow when he answered.
"It's only the beginning."
---
The authorities sealed off the square. News crews swarmed. People shouted about terrorism, natural disasters, curses. None of them had words for what it really was.
Eren and Talia stood at the edge of the chaos, hearts pounding, breaths shallow.
For the first time, it wasn't just their secret.
The garden had stepped fully into their world.
And everyone had seen it.