The morning after the storm smelled like ash and wet soil.
Elliot stepped out into the gray air with a cautious breath, his boots sinking slightly into the softened earth. The sky above Stillfall had settled into its usual quiet gloom, pale clouds stretched thin over the horizon. The world felt empty again—but not lifeless.
The garden had endured.
The mossberries were curled in sleep, but unburnt. The tallstalks leaned a little too far, and a few vine beds had collapsed, but the damage was manageable. Even the glowshrooms clinging to the underside of the porch had deepened their hue, as if proud to have survived the storm.
And strangely, the soil near the edge—where she had fallen—seemed... richer. Darker. Like something unseen had soaked into the ground and made it bloom.
Elliot crouched, brushing his fingers along the soil.
It pulsed.
Not visibly. Not violently. But it was alive.
He didn't say anything. Not yet. Not until he was sure.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Lyra stepped out slowly, wrapped in one of his old wool coats, her silver hair still slightly tangled from sleep. She blinked at the light, then looked around, confused but calm.
"You came outside," Elliot said, standing.
"I didn't want to stay in bed while you worked," she replied, her voice quiet but steady. "Besides... I think I dreamed about this place. Before I got here."
He glanced at her.
"What kind of dream?"
She squinted at the garden. "There were vines. Glowing ones. And something big under the earth, like roots, but... listening."
He felt a chill crawl up his spine.
But he didn't show it.
"Then you probably dreamed about the Heartroot," Elliot said, nodding toward the center of the garden. "Still growing. Quiet for now."
She tilted her head. "You talk about the plants like they're people."
"They're better than most."
That made her smile.
They spent the morning in silence.
Elliot showed her how to reinforce the vine beds using hollowbranch stakes, and how to identify when a leaf was curling from thirst or from fear. She learned fast. Almost too fast. As if her hands remembered something her mind had forgotten.
When they reached the mossberry rows, Lyra knelt and whispered to one of the curled leaves.
The leaf unfurled.
Elliot stared.
"Did you do that?"
"I don't know," she said. "It felt... like it heard me."
He nodded, slowly.
Then said nothing more.
Because what was there to say?
In a world where most things broke, wilted, or died, something was growing again. And it was listening.
They built a new routine.
Mornings were for tending crops—cutting dead growth, reweaving vine fences, and watering from the nearby wellspring when ash wasn't too thick. Afternoons were for foraging, exploring a little farther each time beyond the cleared perimeter. Evenings were quiet, filled with tea, stories, and gentle arguments over what counted as "real soup."
At night, Lyra would sit by the window, staring out at the horizon like it held a memory she couldn't quite catch.
Elliot noticed the way she hummed to the tallstalks when she passed. The way their leaves leaned toward her, like cats stretching toward a warm hand. The way the mint plant by the door had begun growing small blossoms of pale gold that shimmered faintly when she was near.
It wasn't magic.
Not like the old world's tales.
It was... something else.
Something gentler.
Something alive.
One evening, as twilight pooled low behind the trees, Elliot caught Lyra planting a strange seed behind the cabin. It wasn't from his collection. He watched her carefully shape the soil, press it down with reverent fingers, and hum a melody he didn't recognize.
"What is it?" he asked.
She looked up. "I don't know. It was in my pocket when I woke up."
He crouched beside her. "You sure it's safe?"
"No," she said honestly. "But it feels like it belongs."
That was enough for now.
They sat there, watching the sky darken. Fireflies began to blink in the undergrowth. A breeze passed through the garden—and the vines rustled softly, like they were breathing.
That night, Elliot dreamed for the first time in years.
He saw roots stretching under Stillfall, weaving through the bones of the world.
And at the center—where the storm had cracked the land open—something was stirring.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
But watching.