The fern on his windowsill stretched toward him like it was reaching. Its fronds trembled in a rhythm too deliberate to be wind. The whisper still lingered in the air, brushing against his skin like a phantom breath.
"Closer."
Eren's pulse hammered. He pressed his back against the wall, staring at the plant like it had grown fangs. The journal lay on the floor, its pages splayed open as though even it wanted him to read further.
Then—
"Eren?" his mother's voice floated up from downstairs. Ordinary, grounding. For a heartbeat he thought maybe he'd imagined it all.
But the fern's fronds curled back slowly, retracting like something had been caught in the act.
He wiped sweat from his brow and forced himself upright. "Coming," he croaked, though his throat felt raw.
As he bent to pick up the journal, a faint shimmer traced across the page. Words that hadn't been there before appeared in his grandmother's sharp, looping hand:
The Garden does not stay contained forever. When it breathes, the world shifts with it.
The ink glowed faintly, then dulled.
Eren snapped the journal shut.
Washington, D.C.
At the National Security Agency, a low buzz of voices filled the operations floor. Screens glowed with maps, satellite feeds, streams of scrolling data.
A young analyst rubbed his temples. "This… this can't be right."
"What is it?" his supervisor asked, leaning over his shoulder.
The analyst enlarged a satellite photo of Eren's town. The cracked pavement near the square shimmered faintly. But it wasn't just the cracks. The feed showed the pattern—lines spiraling outward, faintly glowing in the infrared spectrum. Almost floral.
The supervisor frowned. "Corruption in the feed?"
"I thought so. But sir… it's not just here." He tapped a key. Screens lit with similar anomalies in Paris. São Paulo. Tokyo. Delhi. All subtle, all growing.
The supervisor's jaw tightened. "Get the Director. Now."
Paris, France
Midnight along the Seine. A streetlight flickered. A young couple laughed as they passed beneath it, until the ground under their feet rippled—just once, like a pebble dropped in water.
They froze.
The cobblestones bulged upward, cracking apart. From the gaps, a thin green shoot pushed out, glowing faintly silver in the lamplight. It bloomed in seconds, unfolding into a flower too large, too sharp, its petals edged in crystal.
The couple ran.
Behind them, the blossom pulsed once, scattering a faint mist that hung in the air before dissolving.
Across the river, a camera mounted on a bridge caught everything.
By dawn, the French Interior Ministry would be on the phone with Washington and London
Eren and Talia sat on the roof of his garage, the journal between them. Neither spoke at first. The air was thick with summer heat, but both shivered.
Finally, Talia broke the silence. "So… your houseplants are possessed."
Eren shot her a look.
"I'm serious," she pressed. "Eren, it's not just the greenhouse anymore. It's here. In your room. That means it's spreading."
"I know." His voice was low, weighted.
She shifted closer, hugging her knees. "What if it doesn't stop? What if the whole town—"
He opened the journal again, tapping the glowing words that had appeared earlier. "It won't stop. Not unless we figure out what it wants."
"Figure out what it—" she sputtered. "It's a freaking haunted forest-garden thing, Eren! It doesn't want. It devours. You said so yourself—if the chosen break, it consumes them."
Her words cut sharper than she knew. Eren clenched the journal shut.
"I won't break," he said, almost to himself.
Talia stared at him. "God, you sound just like—" She stopped, biting her lip.
"Like who?"
"Like every idiot in every horror movie who thinks they're the exception."
Before he could reply, a low hum vibrated through the air. Both froze.
It wasn't coming from the greenhouse this time. It was coming from the sky.
They looked up.
High above, faint streaks of silver light threaded across the stars, like cracks spidering through glass. The hum deepened, and for an instant, the night felt too thin—like the sky itself might shatter.
Then it was gone.
Talia whispered, "Tell me you saw that."
Eren didn't answer. He was too busy clutching the journal, which had begun to shake in his hands.
Tokyo, Japan
A subway tunnel thrummed with commuters. Screens blinked with ads. The crowd swayed with the train's rhythm.
Then the lights flickered.
A businessman glanced up, frowning. The tunnel walls seemed to ripple, shadows crawling like vines. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw petals—silver, luminous—brushing along the steel beams.
The train screeched to a halt.
Passengers gasped. Phones came out.
On the far wall, a pattern had etched itself into the concrete: a perfect circle of spiraling vines, glowing faintly before fading.
When the power came back, no one spoke.
But by morning, the video was viral.
Eren had insisted on meeting Talia again at the library, away from his house. Away from the fern.
The place was empty, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights. They huddled at a corner table, journal open between them.
Eren traced a sketch his grandmother had drawn decades ago. It showed the same spirals now appearing in Paris, Tokyo, everywhere.
"She knew," he whispered. "She knew it would spread."
Talia's eyes flicked nervously to the dark stacks of books around them. "Okay, let's say she did. Then what? What do we do? Go to the cops? Tell them your grandma predicted world doom via doodles?"
"No." He leaned closer, his voice trembling but firm. "We can't tell anyone. Not yet. They'll take the journal. They'll lock us away. You saw the suits. They already know something's happening. If we go to them—"
"They'll make us disappear," Talia finished. She swallowed hard.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The hum of the lights filled the silence.
Then the journal flipped a page on its own.
Both of them froze.
The new page bore a single line, glowing faintly.
When the Garden breathes, nations will fracture. Trust no one but the chosen.
Talia whispered, "Oh, hell no."
Eren shut the book with a snap. "It's starting."
Geneva — United Nations Headquarters
Diplomats shouted across the chamber. Screens projected footage from around the world—the glowing flower on the Seine, the etched pattern in Tokyo, the crack spirals in South America.
"This is terrorism!" barked one ambassador.
"By whom?" countered another. "You want to tell me terrorists planted magic glowing vines in five countries at once?"
The interpreter booths buzzed with chatter—until one translator froze mid-sentence.
Her headset filled with a whisper. Not English. Not French. Not any language she knew.
But her mind understood it anyway.
"Closer."
Her hands shook so violently she dropped her pen.
The whisper spread, rippling booth by booth. By the time the session adjourned, half the interpreters had fled the room.
The hum woke Eren before dawn.
Not from the greenhouse. Not from the sky.
From everywhere.
He stumbled outside, barefoot on the dewy grass. The streetlamps flickered, casting long, jagged shadows. Across the street, Mrs. Hawkins's rosebushes glowed faintly, petals bending toward him as if in greeting.
Talia appeared, running down the block in pajamas, breathless. "You feel it too?"
He nodded.
The hum swelled, pressing against his bones. And then—
The cracks appeared. Right there, in the middle of Main Street. The asphalt bulged, split. A glow seeped through, silver and green.
People's lights flicked on. Curtains pulled back.
The Garden wasn't hiding anymore.
It was bleeding into the open, and the world was watching.