The morning sun spilled softly over the ivy-wrapped walls of House Thorne, scattering gold across the stone corridors and whispering warmth into its colder corners. Birds chirped like they hadn't learned fear yet, and for once, the estate breathed like it wasn't built on secrets.
Caelum stood at the edge of the abandoned garden, brushing his fingers across the rough gate's rusted latch. Behind him, footsteps faded — the servants hurrying elsewhere — leaving only the hush of the overgrown sanctuary beyond.
He stepped inside.
Elowen was already there, seated cross-legged on a flat stone, her back to him. Her dark hair hung loose today, sunlight threading silver strands into it. In her lap, a withered vine coiled as if resting, though it hadn't moved on its own… had it?
"I didn't think you'd come again," she said without turning.
"I didn't think I'd be allowed," Caelum replied, letting the gate creak shut behind him.
Elowen finally glanced over her shoulder. There was a half-smile tugging at her lips — rare, shy. "You're not like the others."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, stepping closer.
She patted the mossy stone beside her. "Then sit. The garden doesn't like when people stand over it like they're waiting for it to obey."
Caelum obeyed.
For a long stretch of silence, they simply breathed in the stillness. A dragonfly hovered above a puddle between cracked tiles. Somewhere, something chirped — not a bird, not quite an insect. The garden felt alive in a way books never described.
Then she spoke.
"I used to think this place was magic," Elowen said softly. "When I was little, the flowers would bloom if I sang to them. Just tiny blooms. Papa said it was coincidence. My mother said it was... dangerous."
Caelum turned to her, surprised by the openness.
She continued, voice barely above a whisper. "I stopped singing after the last time. Everything bloomed at once — and then everything died. The petals turned black. My mother wouldn't touch me for a week."
There was no anger in her tone. Just a quiet ache.
"I think," Caelum said gently, "you weren't hurting them. You just gave them more life than they could handle."
She looked at him, startled.
He shrugged. "Or maybe flowers are dramatic."
That pulled a small laugh from her, light and true. A petal — crinkled and dull on the ground nearby — suddenly shimmered with dew, color bleeding back into its folds for the briefest moment.
Elowen stared at it.
"…Did you see that?" she murmured.
"I thought I imagined it," he lied.
But neither of them had.
Later, after helping her gather old herbs and scrolls scattered from an overturned shelf, Elowen nudged him with her elbow.
"My turn," she said. "Tell me something no one else knows about you."
Caelum's first instinct was to lie — to construct something "in character" for the original Caelum Thorne. But then, something in her expectant gaze loosened the reflex.
"When I was little," he began slowly, "I believed I could hear stars."
Elowen blinked. "Stars?"
He chuckled. "I'd climb onto the roof at night, close my eyes, and I swore I heard whispering. Not words. Just… songs. I told my brother once and he laughed so hard he fell off the ladder."
"Did he get hurt?" she asked, amused.
"He deserved it," Caelum said with mock severity.
She giggled, covering her mouth. Then her expression softened again. "You're strange."
"I take that as a compliment."
"I meant it as one."
As the sun began to lower, they made their way back toward the house.
Just outside the garden's wall, a high-ranking servant — an older man with cold eyes and pressed robes — passed them. His gaze flicked over Caelum, then settled on Elowen like a stain.
"My Lady," he said stiffly, bowing just enough to be polite.
Elowen barely nodded. Her entire posture had changed. Rigid. Guarded.
Caelum opened his mouth, but the man was already walking away.
"Who was that?" he asked.
"No one important," Elowen said, and kept walking.
Caelum stared after the man a moment longer, frowning. The chill he left behind lingered in the air.
That night, Caelum returned to his room and pulled the notebook from beneath his pillow.
The page that had once shown a single line was blank.
"What the—" he whispered.
He turned to the next page. Also blank.
It wasn't until he reached the back cover that he saw it:
You've taken your first step away from fate.
A moment passed.
Then the letters shimmered and vanished — only to reappear in smaller text below:
She is watching.So are we.
Caelum's hand trembled slightly as he closed the book.
Then — thump — the window blew open, though there was no wind outside.
He turned slowly.
A single flower, wilted and long-dead on the sill, had shifted in its pot. Its petals curled upward — as if reaching.
Caelum whispered to himself, "This isn't just a novel anymore…"
And the air answered with silence.
But deep in the garden, unseen by any, a petal bloomed where no root remained.