I don't remember crawling out.
But I must have.
Because I woke in the backyard, face down in the wet grass, just before sunrise.
There was ash on my tongue.
Dirt packed in my nails.
And when I sat up and looked toward the tree, I saw only charred roots curling in the earth—smoldering, like the tree had died screaming.
---
Noah was gone.
But Clara was still there.
Lying on her side, eyes shut, whispering words I couldn't hear.
She was alive.
But not untouched.
---
I carried her inside.
The front door opened for me on its own.
I should have found that strange.
But after everything, it just felt… inevitable.
The house welcomed us back like it had been waiting.
Like it knew.
---
I laid Clara on the couch.
She was breathing, but shallow.
Her eyelids flickered with REM sleep—fast, furious, frantic.
I held her hand and saw that the marks on her arms—the carved runes—had scabbed over.
But new ones were appearing across her collarbones.
Slowly.
Burning through the skin as if tattooed by something under the flesh.
They formed a shape:
The same spiral.
But this time, surrounded by flames.
---
That's when she opened her eyes.
They were brown.
Still hers.
But something else swam underneath.
Like the echo of someone watching from behind them.
---
> "Mom…" she whispered.
> "I saw it."
> "I saw all of it."
---
I didn't speak.
I waited.
She blinked slowly, like her thoughts were moving through mud.
Then:
> "Noah's not gone."
> "He… gave himself up."
> "He let the root take what it needed."
> "And it gave something back."
---
I reached to wipe the soot from her cheek.
But my hand trembled.
Because deep down, I already knew.
---
> "Clara… what did it give you?"
She turned to me.
Smiled faintly.
> "A new name."
---
And then she passed out again.
---
🕯️ That night
The house changed.
Not violently.
Not quickly.
Just enough to be noticed.
The attic door, which had always creaked open with effort, now swung like it had been freshly oiled.
The walls—previously cracked—were smooth.
Polished.
Like they'd grown new skin.
And the floorboards no longer groaned underfoot.
They breathed.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Soft. Subtle.
But real.
---
I checked on Clara hourly.
She didn't wake.
But she whispered.
Not in her voice.
Not even in English.
The same syllables again and again:
"Kar-vas shel'tin.
Ash-lok imad.
Teren alma no."
---
I recorded the words.
Played them back.
Slowed them down.
Then reversed them.
And that's when I heard something else.
A sentence. Faint. Childlike.
> "She is not Clara anymore."
---
I dropped the phone.
---
I spent the rest of the night in the basement.
The real basement.
Not the ritual chamber that collapsed under the tree.
But the one beneath the house.
And even there—things had shifted.
There were symbols carved in the support beams.
Old ones.
Ones I didn't put there.
And the laundry room light now flickered in perfect rhythm:
Low. High. Hold.
---
I stood in the center of the room.
Closed my eyes.
And I felt it.
Heat.
Not from the furnace.
From underneath the house.
Still smoldering.
Still alive.
Still connected.
The Ashroot might have burned—but its root system ran everywhere.
And it had chosen its new vessel.
---
The next morning
Clara woke.
She sat up straight. Eyes open. Voice firm.
> "I need the book."
> "What book?"
> "The one she buried in the floorboards."
I followed her into Eleanor's old room.
She walked without limping.
Without pain.
Without hesitation.
She knelt beside the bed and tore up a loose plank.
Beneath it: A black cloth.
Wrapped around a book made of bark and bone.
Bound in human hair.
No title.
No lock.
Only a sigil burned into the cover:
A spiral inside a flame.
Inside a cracked eye.
---
Clara opened it and smiled.
> "This is where she left her name."
> "And mine now begins."
---
I backed away.
> "Clara, you're scaring me."
> "I'm not Clara."
She turned the page.
> "Not anymore."