The glade had changed in her absence.
Auri noticed it first in the trees—how their leaves leaned toward her like they remembered her footsteps. The path, once overgrown, had softened into a thread of moss and stone, as if the forest had gently been guiding someone back all along.
Her boots sank slightly into the damp earth as she stepped forward. Behind her, Hope walked quietly, no longer the girl of riddles but a silent shadow, offering presence instead of answers.
Auri paused at the hollow stone.
It still sat nestled beneath the arching roots of the old alder, its runes faded, but still whispering when the wind passed just right. She knelt and touched its mossy surface.
"I'm here," she whispered.
The breeze stirred.
And something flickered in her chest—not grief, not quite. Something newer, gentler. As though the forest itself exhaled and welcomed her back.
She rose and walked toward the heart of the glade.
Where once she and Lyra had danced beneath fireflies, now only the soft hush of night remained. But the air didn't feel empty. It felt waiting.
There was a soft rustle.
And from between the ferns, a figure emerged.
Not Lyra.
But someone Auri hadn't seen in many moons—Talon, the quiet-hearted boy who had once helped build the memory circle with them, his sleeves rolled, his laugh soft.
He blinked, then froze when he saw her.
"Auri?" he breathed.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Talon stepped forward slowly, like he was afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly. "They said… no one knew what happened to you. Only that the glade stayed the same. Like it was waiting."
"It was," she said softly.
Talon's eyes glistened. "She's gone, isn't she?"
Auri's throat tightened. "She is. But she's not lost."
Talon lowered his head in reverence.
Hope stepped forward then, placing a small bundle of wild violets at the circle's edge. "Magic doesn't end. It just changes."
Talon looked at her, puzzled.
"She's a friend," Auri said, offering a faint smile.
They stood together in silence. No one needed to speak.
Then, slowly, Auri stepped to the center of the glade and drew the pendant from around her neck.
She knelt and placed it atop a stone shaped like a curled leaf.
"For you," she whispered.
The wind rose.
And for a moment—just one—there was laughter in the leaves
The laughter faded like dew kissed away by morning light, but the warmth it left behind lingered in Auri's chest. She closed her eyes and let it settle deep, like roots threading through soil.
Talon sat down on the moss-covered stone beside her. "I kept coming back," he said quietly. "Just in case someone returned. Or… she did."
Auri looked at him. There was something different about him now—stillness, but also growth. Like the trees themselves had fed him silence and taught him how to wait.
"She hasn't come back in the way we expected," Auri said. "But she's here. In the trees. In the magic. And in what we do next."
Talon nodded slowly. "You sound like her."
The words pierced something tender. "She gave me pieces of herself. I only just realized how many."
Hope wandered a little way into the trees, running her fingers across the bark, humming a tune that sounded familiar, but shifted like wind over water. The glade, quiet and reverent, wrapped around them like a spell being rewritten.
"I found something," Talon said after a while. He reached into the leather satchel at his side and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment.
Auri took it gently. The corners were water-stained and the ink had run in places, but she recognized the looping handwriting immediately. Lyra's.
> If I fade, do not wait for me like a storm waits to end. Let me be the rain that brings the bloom. Let me be the ache that leads you home.
The ache flared, sharp and sudden.
Auri held the paper close to her heart. "She knew," she whispered. "She always knew."
Talon rose. "I think she wrote more. The hollow stone still holds some of her magic. But it only opens when it's ready."
"She taught me how to listen," Auri said. "I think I'll try again."
Hope returned then, her eyes shining with something unreadable. "The forest remembers. But it's also hungry to grow. What will you do with what she left behind?"
Auri stood, brushing her hands on her cloak. "I'll honor her."
She turned toward the west edge of the glade—where the roots dipped into a shallow hollow, the one Lyra once said was her "secret dreaming place." It had always felt sacred, though they never knew why.
Auri stepped carefully, feeling the pull like a tide against her ribs. When she reached the hollow, she knelt and pressed both palms into the damp soil.
"Show me," she whispered.
A shimmer rippled beneath her fingers.
Soft light poured upward—not bright, but gentle, like moonlight drawn through glass. It swirled around her hands, threading into the spaces between her fingers.
And then she heard it.
A voice.
Her voice.
Lyra's voice.
Not aloud, but within.
> Auri. I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye. I was afraid you'd follow me into the dark. You always followed me. But this—this time, you had to stay behind. You had to grow where I could not.
Tears slipped down Auri's cheeks as she breathed in the light.
> Do you remember the glade we made? You, me, Talon, and the little fireflies we caught in jars? That was the beginning of our magic. It wasn't in the spells. It was in our choosing. We chose each other. We chose this place. Don't forget.
The light coiled around her like a scarf of warmth, then lifted, curling into the trees before vanishing.
Auri exhaled shakily.
Hope and Talon stood at a distance, not moving, as if they, too, had heard something sacred.
Auri turned to face them.
"She left pieces of herself everywhere," she said, voice thick with feeling. "Not just in letters. In the forest. In us."
Talon stepped forward. "Then let's build something with them."
Hope tilted her head. "What would you build?"
"A home," Auri said without hesitation. "A place where magic can grow. Where no girl has to disappear to feel safe. Where love isn't hidden behind secrets and spells."
Hope smiled softly. "Then let this be the beginning."
And it was.
Over the next days, the glade transformed. Not quickly, and not all at once. But with steady, loving hands.
Talon found old beams beneath a collapsed shrine and carried them back, one by one. Hope called birds and bees to pollinate the sleeping blooms. Auri carved runes into stone and whispered Lyra's name into each one like a blessing.
They made benches from fallen branches, wove ivy into archways, planted seeds Lyra had once gathered in secret. They didn't erase the past. They honored it.
And on the seventh evening, when the sun spilled gold through the canopy, Auri stood at the heart of the glade once more, now shaped not only by memory, but by purpose.
She lit a candle in the curve of the hollow stone.
"For those we've lost," she said. "And those we've become."
Hope placed a hand on her shoulder. Talon stood beside them, silent, but shining.
And from the trees came the faintest wind.
Like laughter.
Like goodbye.
Like the beginning of something beautiful.