The fern on the windowsill didn't stop twitching.
Not when Eren shoved his chair back into place. Not when he pressed the journal flat on the desk and stared at the scrawled words until the letters blurred. Not even when his mother opened the door, poked her head in, and told him to get some sleep.
Its fronds stretched toward him like green fingers that refused to be still.
Eren lay awake for hours, listening to the faint rustle that no breeze should've made. His mind kept circling the same thought, round and round until his chest ached.
The Garden is inside now.
By the time dawn arrived, painting his room in pale gray light, he hadn't closed his eyes once.
The streets felt different that morning. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came when people had decided not to talk about something, as though silence itself could smother truth.
Yellow tape was still wrapped around Main Street's cratered pavement. Men in suits stood near the cracks, pointing at them, murmuring into radios. Some wore black gloves, others carried sleek devices that pulsed with tiny red lights as they swept them across the ground.
Eren kept his hood up and moved fast. His backpack felt heavier than usual—not because of books, but because of the journal hidden in the bottom, its presence dragging at him like lead.
Talia caught up two blocks later, yawning wide enough to crack her jaw. "You look like a corpse. Did you even blink last night?"
"Not really."
"Thought so." She shoved her hands into her pockets. "Everyone's saying FBI. Or DHS. My cousin swears she saw a van with no plates."
Eren didn't answer. His gaze lingered on one of the suited men as they crouched near the vine-hardened streetlamp. The way they moved—clinical, rehearsed—wasn't local law enforcement.
Someone already knew about the Garden. Maybe had known for years.
By fourth period, Eren couldn't take the hallway chatter. He ducked into the library again, his backpack thudding as he slid into the farthest corner. He pulled out the journal, running his fingers over the leather cover.
Every page felt like a puzzle piece, but the picture refused to form.
The Garden breathes when it's hungry.
The chosen are tested.
The Blooming Girl waits.
He traced those words with his finger, then shut the book quickly when footsteps echoed too close.
From behind a shelf, two teachers whispered.
"…military contractors flying in tonight. Straight from D.C."
"Here? Over a gas leak?"
"Not a leak. That's the point."
Their voices faded as they walked away. Eren pressed the journal to his chest.
They're moving already.
Washington, D.C.
In a windowless sublevel of a federal building, a secure monitor flickered. A satellite feed replayed footage from Main Street: vines calcifying metal, cracks glowing like molten glass.
A woman in a dark suit leaned forward. Her badge read: DARPA Liaison – C. Markham.
She turned to the table of men in uniforms and tailored jackets. "It's spreading. We can't classify this as an isolated anomaly anymore."
A general's jaw clenched. "Public narrative holds—for now. Gas explosion. Minor injuries. But the biology we've recovered isn't terrestrial."
Another voice, smooth, detached: "If it can infiltrate infrastructure, it's a threat. I want containment before Moscow or Beijing hears a whisper."
Silence hung for a beat. Everyone already knew: those whispers were already echoing overseas.
That evening, Eren sat on the swings behind the elementary school. He used to come here when things felt too heavy—back before the greenhouse, before whispers in the dark.
Now the rusting chains creaked like breath. The sandbox glimmered faintly, a sheen like dew. He blinked hard, and it vanished.
Talia plopped onto the swing beside him. "You're acting like you're in a spy movie."
He gave her a sharp look. "What if we are?"
She raised a brow. "Please. Our town's too boring for that."
Eren didn't answer. He thought of the men in suits, the strange devices scanning cracks, the hushed words of his teachers. Too boring? No. Too targeted.
Moscow,Russia
A boardroom lit in sterile white. Men in military coats leaned over grainy printed photos—American suburbs cordoned off, black vans in the background.
"The Americans are hiding something," one officer muttered.
"Not hiding," said another. "Containing."
"Same thing. Deploy reconnaissance. If their soil grows miracles, we'll have it before they lock it away."
That night, the fern wasn't alone.
Eren woke at 2 a.m. to see faint tendrils crawling from the base of his desk, hair-thin and translucent. They pulsed faintly, like veins carrying light.
He froze.
The tendrils stopped moving, as if aware they'd been caught. Then, just as slowly, they shrank back into the shadows.
He didn't sleep again
Over the next week, the town shifted. More unmarked vans. More men and women in suits asking "routine" questions. Streets cordoned off for "gas inspections."
At lunch, Talia shoved her phone in his face. "Look. Someone posted a video—before they deleted it. Tell me this is a gas leak."
The video showed Main Street at night. The cracks glowed faintly, moss pushing up through them. The glow pulsed like a heartbeat.
Eren's blood turned cold. "Delete that. Now."
"Why?"
"Because they'll track it."
As if on cue, the video vanished from her screen. Removed due to violation.
Talia's face went pale. "Holy shit. You're right."
Langley, Virginia
"Another leak," the analyst muttered, clicking a keyboard. "Teenagers this time. Footage already scrubbed."
A superior leaned over his chair. "Flag their devices. Cross-reference metadata. If they've been near the anomaly site, I want eyes on them."
A red box appeared on-screen: EREN CARTER – flagged proximity.
Friday night. Eren walked home under a thin drizzle, hood pulled tight. The journal weighed heavy in his bag, heavier with every step.
Headlights swept the street. A black SUV crawled past, windows tinted. It didn't turn. Didn't speed up. Just… lingered.
Eren's throat tightened.
He ducked into an alley, heart hammering, pressing his back to the wall. The SUV idled at the corner, engine rumbling.
He held his breath. Seconds dragged. Finally, it rolled away.
When he stumbled home, soaked and shaking, he went straight to his desk. He opened the journal with trembling hands.
On the last filled page, his grandmother's sharp handwriting whispered across the paper:
When the Garden stirs, the world will come hunting.
Eren stared until his vision blurred. Then he slammed the book shut, because he already knew—
the hunt had started.