The chair lay overturned on the wooden floor, the journal splayed open beside it. Eren Vale stood pressed against his bedroom wall, chest heaving. The fern on his windowsill still quivered, its fronds stretched toward him like grasping fingers.
"Closer," the whisper came again—soft, feminine, intimate as a breath against his ear.
Eren's pulse thundered. He pressed his palm to the welt on his arm, the old scratch still warm as if the Garden itself had branded him. The room looked the same—his desk, his stack of unfinished homework, the crooked poster of a half-forgotten band—but everything ordinary felt thinner now. Fragile. Like the walls between his life and the greenhouse had worn down to paper.
Downstairs, his mother called his name. A reminder of normalcy. Ordinary. He wanted to answer, to ground himself, but the fern twitched again and every nerve in his body screamed not to look away.
He forced himself forward, scooping up the journal. The last line glared up at him in his grandmother's looping script:
The Garden tests the chosen. If they break, it consumes them. If they endure, it obeys.
He slammed it shut and whispered to the empty room, "What do you want from me?"
The whisper did not return. Only the silence stretched, heavier than before.
---
At school the next morning, the ordinary world stumbled on—but it was cracked at the edges.
The square downtown remained cordoned with yellow tape, the streetlamp still twisted into a grotesque coil of petrified vine. Rumors spread faster than fire: a gas explosion, an underground pipe collapse, even secret military experiments.
Eren Vale walked the halls like a ghost. Conversations snagged on him—hushed voices, lingering stares. Talia found him at his locker, hair a mess, eyes shadowed.
"You look like hell," she said, her voice low but sharp.
"I didn't sleep."
"No kidding." She leaned closer. "Was it her again?"
Eren's silence was answer enough.
"Vale…" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you realize how insane this sounds? Voices, glowing plants, haunted journals—"
"It's not insane." His tone was harder than he intended. "It's real."
She flinched, but didn't back off. "Fine. Let's say it is. Then what? You think you can just… talk back to it? Negotiate with your supernatural greenhouse girlfriend while the rest of us get crushed under collapsing streetlamps?"
"She's not—" Eren's words stuck. He exhaled slowly. "She's not the enemy. The Garden isn't either. Not exactly."
Talia stared at him like he'd grown vines himself. "You're losing it, Vale."
"Maybe," he admitted softly. "But I can't ignore it. Not anymore."
---
Across town, the man in the gray suit adjusted his gloves. He crouched at the edge of the cordon, studying the calcified husk that had once been living vine. Behind him, two plainclothes agents scanned the murmuring crowd.
"Sample integrity?" one asked.
"Stable for now," the man murmured, snapping off a brittle fragment and sliding it into a steel vial. "But it grew overnight. Accelerated pattern. This isn't containment—it's a leak."
"Locals bought the gas explosion story," the other agent said.
"They always do," the man replied, standing. His eyes swept the square, then lingered on a boy half-hidden behind the crowd—hood drawn low, watching too intently.
"Sir?"
The man shook his head. "Nothing. Just make sure the samples reach Langley."
He left without another word.
---
That afternoon, the whispers at school grew unbearable. Eren retreated to the library, the journal heavy in his backpack. He slid into the farthest corner, drawing it out with trembling hands.
His grandmother's neat script unfurled across the yellowed pages, as though she had written them for him alone:
The Garden breathes when it is hungry.
The Blooming Girl sings only for those who listen.
His breath caught. Lyra. It had to be.
The seat across from him scraped back. Talia dropped her bag with a thud. "There you are. Hiding, again."
He didn't look up. "Studying."
She leaned over the table, peering at the open journal. "That your grandma's book?"
"Yes."
"What does it say?"
Eren hesitated, then turned the journal toward her. Sketches lined the page—flowers with too many petals, vines wrapped around human silhouettes, a bloom that mirrored the silver flower they'd seen open in the greenhouse.
Talia's face paled. "That's—"
"She knew," Eren said quietly. "She knew all of it. She wrote about the Blooming Girl. About Lyra."
Talia snapped the book shut. "Or she was just crazy."
"She wasn't." The force in his voice startled even him. "She was warning me. Preparing me."
Talia sat back, crossing her arms. "So what? You think this Lyra's been trapped in there for decades? That your grandma just… left her?"
Eren's throat tightened. "Maybe she couldn't free her. Maybe the Garden wouldn't let her. But it's awake now, Talia. And it's not stopping."
---
Night fell heavy.
Eren sat at his desk, the journal open, moonlight glinting off the ink. The house was quiet, too quiet. His mother had gone to bed early. The street outside hummed with distant traffic.
The fern on his windowsill twitched.
He froze.
The fronds unfurled wide, curling like fingers. This time, it wasn't subtle. The plant reached toward him with deliberate, unnatural grace.
"Closer."
The voice brushed his ear again. Not a dream. Not a memory. Real.
He stumbled back, heart hammering. The chair clattered to the floor.
The fern stilled. The room went silent.
Downstairs, his mother called his name. An ordinary sound in an ordinary house.
But Eren Vale knew.
The Garden was no longer confined to the greenhouse. It was in his room. His house. His world.
And it wasn't going to stop.
---
Across the ocean, in a fortified compound buried beneath miles of concrete, a red phone rang.
"Another event, sir," an aide reported. "Small town. Stateside."
The general on duty didn't flinch. He simply adjusted his glasses and nodded. "Mobilize the unit. No leaks."
"Yes, sir."
The aide hesitated. "And if containment fails?"
The general's gaze was steel. "Then pray it hasn't already spread."
---
Back in his darkened room, Eren Vale whispered to the shadows.
"What do you want from me?"
The silence that answered was heavier than stone.
Then—just faint enough to chill him—came the reply:
"Everything."