The gate of living vines parted slowly, as if hesitant to release them.
Elliot stood at the threshold, bag slung over his shoulder, a quiet weight in his chest. The wind beyond the garden carried no warmth, no scent of blooming mint or moss. Only the dry breath of ash plains and silence.
Behind him, the garden murmured—a living pulse of leaves and petals, reluctant.
Lyra tugged her cloak tighter, golden eyes scanning the pale morning horizon. "We won't be gone long," she said softly. But even she glanced back.
The Heartroot Tree glowed faintly under its canopy, as if watching. And as they stepped through the gate, the vines gently curled back into place—closing them out.
They followed the sun east, toward the broken hills where Elliot had seen smoke days ago. Old instinct guided his boots: watch the sky, count your steps between safe landmarks, mark wind direction with fallen leaves. Stillfall had remade the world, but some things—like how to survive—remained.
They passed a fallen tower swallowed by rusted ivy. A scorched wagon wheel. A signpost with no name.
Lyra kept pace beside him in silence, her fingers brushing the stem of a Buffbloom tucked at her waist. The land here was tired. Dead roots crunched beneath their boots. Birds did not sing. Even the wind felt thin.
"Do you think… others still live out here?" she asked.
"I think," Elliot replied, "there were gardens before ours. Some may still hold breath."
By midday, they found the ruin—a half-buried cellar and an old irrigation system clogged with ash. But no smoke. No life.
Instead, they found marks—long claw drags on the dirt, and the brittle remains of a Withered slumped against a tree, pierced by a Thornlash. Old. Abandoned.
They buried it without words, placing a Mistfern over the shallow grave. The fern shimmered faintly, its mist curling like a shroud.
"Even hollow things deserve rest," Lyra whispered.
Night fell faster beyond the garden's reach.
The pair camped beneath a leaning stone arch. Elliot grew uneasy—the stars here felt further away, as if the sky itself avoided this place. When they took turns keeping watch, neither truly rested.
A sound in the distance—scraping.
They didn't stay to investigate.
By noon the next day, they circled back. The land seemed to breathe easier with each step closer to the garden. The winds smelled less like iron and more like soil. A Glowshroom had sprouted on a ridge nearby—proof the garden's presence reached even here.
Lyra stopped first, hand raised. Her eyes lit.
"There," she said. "Do you hear that?"
Faint laughter. Wind chimes in branches. The Heartroot calling them back.
The garden welcomed them.
The vines opened without command this time—swift and urgent, as if relieved. Petals fluttered from above like confetti. The buffplants leaned slightly toward them, blooming brighter.
Elliot stepped through first, blinking against the sudden golden light. He felt it then—how much the place had missed them. Not just a sanctuary… but a home.
Behind him, Lyra paused at the gate, eyes damp, her fingers brushing the wood.
"We shouldn't leave for too long again," she whispered.
Elliot nodded. "Next time, we let the garden come with us."
That night, as the Heartroot pulsed and the plants whispered lullabies, Elliot penned a note in the old book beneath his cot:
"The world outside is still broken. But the roots we've grown here... they reach deeper than we knew."
And the garden slept, just a little stronger.