Chapter 5: Her Bloom Isn't Red Anymore, It's Becoming Everything II
She raised an eyebrow. Okay. A little on the nose. Still, curiosity nudged past caution. She slid the book free from the shelf.
It snapped open in an instant it cleared the row, the cover jerking apart as if it had been waiting for her touch. Pages thrashed wildly, a frantic flutter that filled the silence, though the air around her hadn't moved at all. No draft. No reason. Just the violent rattle of paper against paper.
Most of the pages were gone.
Not ripped roughly or gnawed away by time, but removed with intention. The stubs left behind were smooth, precise — carefully measured, as if someone had decided exactly what deserved to remain.
One page.
She leaned closer. The words weren't printed. They were scrawled in uneven ink, the letters pressing too hard in places, trembling in others, like a hand that hadn't quite trusted itself.
She will bloom when all else dies.
Aria went still. The shop seemed to hold its breath with her.
The ink at the edges seemed to weep, dark streaks bleeding outward — not water, not smudged by accident, but as if the page itself had cried. She ran a finger over the words.
Heat pulsed beneath her skin, a faint flicker in her chest. Familiar. Uncomfortable.
She snapped the book shut and tucked it beneath the counter.
Enough weird for one shift.
The rest of the afternoon crawled. Customers trickled in and out like reluctant ghosts, barely anyone stopping long enough to browse.
The low hum of the heater buzzed against the walls, mingling with the occasional groan and creak of pipes older than her apartment building.
Time dragged in that slow, sticky way it always did near closing. By six, she finally locked up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out onto the street — right as the rain started again.
A fine drizzle soaked into her hoodie almost immediately, the damp fabric clinging cold against her shoulders. Of course. She sighed, tugged the hood tighter around her neck, and quickened her pace, shoving her hands deep into her pockets.
Her boots splashed through shallow puddles, murky and brown, water sloshing up with dull, coffee - colored plops. The street smelled like wet asphalt and old leaves, and with every step, the city felt heavier, slower, as if it were settling in around her.
Above her, a billboard flickered erratically. Half the image was scrambled, shifting and jumping like it couldn't decide what to show. Its light reflected off the wet pavement in jagged shards, fractured like a broken mirror.
ZONE A: TEMPORARY MONITORING
SYMPTOM HOTLINE: XXX
Nobody looked up. Nobody ever did.
A voice barked from a fruit cart a few steps away, cutting through the drizzle and the distant hum of traffic. Same vendor as always: a woman in a puffed jacket that swallowed her frame, gold hoops swinging as she leaned over the counter, a QR code - ring glinting under the streetlight.
"Three for five. Cash only. Don't trust the cloud. That stuff steals your face. And if you pay with card or that fancy QR thing? Forget it — no discount for you."
Aria stepped closer, brushing damp hair from her eyes. She picked up a couple of apples from the worn wooden crate, fingers leaving faint streaks in the thin layer of dust coating their skins.
They looked ordinary enough — bright red, glossy under the weak flicker of a nearby bulb — but even in their familiarity, there was something stubbornly alive about them, like they'd been waiting for someone to notice.
She rolled one in her palm, feeling the cool weight, inhaling the faint, sharp tang of orchard and rain mingled. The vendor's voice carried on, cracking slightly in the damp air, warning off any would - be card users like she was guarding a secret treasure.
The street seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the drizzle hissing softly against the metal of the cart, and for a second, the world outside the fruit stall felt suspended, simple, and strange all at once.
When she set them down and slid a few bills across the counter, the woman behind the register squinted at her like she'd just made a terrible choice.
"You sure you want the red ones?" the woman asked, her voice rough from years of smoke and gossip. "Girl, nah. Bad week for red. Take the green ones instead."
Aria paused mid - motion, her hand hovering over the paper bag. "Why?"
The woman leaned forward a little, lowering her voice as if sharing something half - secret, half - curse. "Rot's been actin' strange lately.
Looks fine on the outside, but inside?" She tapped one of the apples with a chipped nail. "Boom — spores. I'm tellin' you, something's wrong with the soil. Bad energy, maybe worse."
Aria frowned, glancing at the apple's glossy surface again. "They look fine to me."
"That's what everybody says till they open one," the woman said, shaking her head. "Happened to my neighbor last night. Whole kitchen smelled like mold and metal. Just… off."
Aria hesitated, then nodded slowly, switching out the red apples for green. "Guess I'll take your word for it."
The woman gave a small, approving grunt. "Smart girl. Green's safer. For now, anyway."
Aria blinked. "Spore apples?"
The woman just shrugged. "You didn't hear it from me."
Aria muttered a quick thanks and kept walking. Half a block later, she bit into one of the apples.
Immediately, regret hit. The flesh was soft, mushy, almost liquid in the center. Blackened and caved in, it collapsed under her teeth like rotten paper.
A gag rose in her throat. She spat the bite into the gutter, watching it splatter with the rainwater, then dumped the rest into the nearest bin with a frustrated huff.
"I should've listened to my instincts," she muttered to herself, voice low and bitter. "Not that vendor… now I've got a bad apple." She exhaled sharply, shoulders tightening, and gave the last one a little toss — more force than necessary — watching it hit the metal bin with a dull thunk, water splashing at the impact.
By the time she reached her building, her hoodie was soaked through, rain seeping cold into her clothes, and her nerves were frayed.
She trudged up the five flights of stairs, each step heavy, boots slapping against the concrete, and kicked them off inside. She froze in the doorway, the damp chill still clinging, the lingering taste of rot in her mouth, heart thumping against the quiet apartment walls.
Something felt… off. She closed the door behind her slowly.
The apartment was still. Not quiet — still.
Air too heavy. The smell of something floral.
Faint. Sweet. Wrong. Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf.
The flower was back. No — flowers, plural.
Five of them now.
Each bloom a different color. Crimson. Violet. Cerulean. Pale gold. Ink black.
All curling from different books, petals growing like they'd always belonged there.
Sea Glass Psalms. The Edge of Dusk. Forgotten Bodies. Every book Aria had buried a piece of herself in — every one of them blooming with impossible color. A spectrum of memories. Of lovers.
She hadn't touched them. Couldn't. Something inside her said don't. Not because she was scared of plants, but because these weren't plants. Not really.
They hadn't wilted. Not even a little.
She turned toward the mirror by the window.
Same antique mirror left by the last tenant. Slightly warped. She'd been meaning to throw it out for months. Every time she got close to doing it, something stopped her.
Tonight, it had a crack. Tiny. Fresh. Like a split in the surface of the world.
She stepped forward. Her reflection blinked half a beat late.
Not enough to prove anything. Enough to feel it. She tilted her head.
The reflection didn't. She whispered, "Nope."
The mirror said nothing. Just stared. Not at her. Through her. The air shifted.
Not temperature — pressure. Her ears popped slightly.
And then, like a voice without words, something whispered.
It wasn't sound. It was a knowing.
She turned back toward the flowers.
The petals curled. Listening. Her knees buckled slightly.
She reached for the arm of the couch and sat down hard.
Her phone. She yanked it out of her pocket. No bars. No Wi - Fi. No message.
Just dead space. Like the city had been unplugged.
The government had been broadcasting calm messages all week: "Temporary maintenance," "Network upgrades," "Public safety measures." Officially, everything was fine.
Everyone was supposed to stay calm. But it was clear the council was in control, moving everything from the shadows. They were playing god, shutting down networks and cutting signals so no one could spread fear, so no one could see the truth.
The city was gradually being quarantined. Roads blocked, checkpoints rising overnight. Drones tracing the streets. No one allowed to leave. No one allowed to enter. Every piece of public information polished and sanitized to hide what was really happening.
She muttered under her breath, "Okay, no. We are not doing this today."
The mirror watched.
The flowers pulsed — once — like a heartbeat.
She wanted to move. She didn't.
She whispered, "What are you?"
The flowers didn't answer. Neither did the mirror.
But the wind outside picked up. Shrieked once across the building like it was clawing at the windows.
Then silence. She stayed there, still, breathing slow.
At some point, her phone buzzed.
She nearly dropped it. One new message. But it didn't open normally. The screen shimmered, wavering like water. The text flickered in and out, letters bending and twisting, glowing faint pink before disappearing entirely.
Then her thumbs felt it: the phone vibrated in short, uneven pulses, almost like a heartbeat — too deliberate to be accidental. It slid slightly in her grip as if something inside it were moving, pressing, nudging.
A whisper of static hissed from the speakers, and in that tiny, electrical sound she swore she heard a voice, soft, urgent, teasing, yet full of command.
Jules: You good? Heard Yune's MIA. Weird stuff in the city?
Aria stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. Behind the message, for a flickering moment, she saw her reflection warp — pink hair cascading across the glass like it had a life of its own, eyes glowing faintly.
A pulse ran up her arm from the phone, a shiver of awareness that someone, something, was reaching through the dead network just to touch her, just to warn her.
The pink - haired goddess, bending the static, threading reality through the signals the council had killed.
She typed:
Aria: I don't know. Something's wrong. Something's coming.
She hit send. Put the phone down. Looked up.
The mirror crack had grown. A web now. Spreading outward like ice.
Her reflection flickered again — delayed.
This time, Aria didn't blink at all.
The flowers shifted gently, as if reacting to the thought she hadn't spoken.
The air felt electric.
Alive. Not fear. Not quite. Anticipation.
The whisper came again. This time, it was clear.
One word. Right into her bones.
"Bloom."
*********************
(The warning wasn't loud —
it arrived as ink that bled, fruit that rotted from the center,
networks going quiet while the city pretended nothing
had learned how to speak.
When mirrors crack and colors rise without roots,
it isn't decay taking hold.
It's the moment before becoming —
when the world holds its breath
and answers with a bloom.)