The first real storm in months didn't come with warning.
No sudden drop in temperature. No shift in wind. It simply unfolded—like the sky had decided to turn inside out and pour every ounce of anger it had left over the ruins of the world.
Elliot was already in the garden when it started, coaxing a stubborn patch of mossberry to root properly. He felt the tremor through the soil before he heard the thunder. The moss curled in on itself, like it knew what was coming.
He stood and looked up.
The sky wasn't dark.
It was bruised.
Colors swirled together in unnatural patterns—violet, rust-red, sickly green—like an oil slick painted across the heavens. The clouds didn't roll in. They snapped into place like broken pieces of glass.
Stillfall storms were rare, but they were violent.
"Not again," Elliot muttered, grabbing his tools and hurrying toward the cabin. He had sealed the roof after the last incident, but he didn't trust it to hold.
Halfway to the door, he saw her.
A figure stumbling just beyond the outer garden—barefoot, ash-covered, hair plastered to her face by wind and debris. She was shielding her eyes, disoriented, every movement slow like she was underwater.
It was Lyra.
Or rather—it would be.
This was before the firelight, before the mint plant had reached for her breath. This was the first time.
He dropped everything.
"Hey!" he shouted, running toward her. The wind pulled at his voice. Ash whipped across his face like sandpaper. She didn't answer—just collapsed into the soil at the edge of his garden.
By the time he reached her, she was already unconscious.
She was cold, far too cold. Her skin had a faint shimmer to it, as if she'd stepped through stardust, and her heartbeat—barely there—echoed like it didn't belong in this world. Elliot carried her back to the cabin, ignoring the storm's rising shriek.
Inside, he wrapped her in every blanket he owned. He stoked the fire until it roared. He offered warm tea to lips too dry to drink.
The storm raged outside. But within the walls, something else stirred.
The plants—his plants—twitched.
Not violently. Not afraid.
Welcoming.
She slept for hours. Elliot didn't.
He watched the vines creeping closer. The glowshroom bulbs turned their faces toward her. Even the ragged heartleaf by the window unfurled, stretching slightly, trying to reach her aura.
"She's like you," Elliot whispered to the plants. "No wonder you're curious."
When she finally stirred, her golden eyes flickered open like sunrise through a dusted window. She didn't panic. Didn't flinch. She simply looked at him.
"Where...?"
"You're safe," Elliot said, quietly. "Storm's outside. This place is sealed."
She nodded weakly. "I don't remember... anything."
"What's your name?"
A long pause.
Then, softly: "Lyra. I think."
"Good," he said, standing. "I'm Elliot."
He didn't ask anything else.
He didn't need to.
Some things didn't need to be remembered to matter. And in a world full of lost things, two strangers sharing silence by firelight felt like a miracle.
Later that night, the storm eased.
Elliot stood at the door, watching the ash settle. The land looked freshly scarred, like every inch had been scraped raw. But the garden had survived. The plants stood taller. Stronger.
Behind him, Lyra was asleep again, curled beneath the woven blankets. The mint beside her pillow reached just a little closer, swaying softly as she breathed.
Outside, from beneath the earth, something pulsed.
The Heartroot.
Not yet grown. Not yet known.
But listening.
And waiting.