The engineer did not notice it at first.
He chalked the stiffness in his wrist up to strain. He had slipped hard against the drainage wall. The bruise made sense.
What did not make sense was the warmth.
Not heat.
Warmth.
As if something beneath his skin was holding a low ember steady against bone.
He ran his thumb across the faint green line again that evening.
It pulsed once.
Softly.
He froze.
It stopped.
He laughed uneasily at himself and turned on the television.
Outside his window, the oak trees lining his street rustled though there was no wind.
⸻
In the swamp, he felt it immediately.
A second current.
Not strong.
Not anchored.
Thin.
Human.
He shifted his weight in the clearing, the seven trees behind him creaking faintly in response.
The pulse beneath the soil fluttered toward town.
Toward the drainage system.
Toward the engineer's house.
This was not like the girl.
The girl had listened.
This one had been brushed.
Touched.
And now something within him stirred in answer.
Not hunger.
Recognition.
He closed his eyes.
The second current did not root into soil.
It remained in flesh.
That was new.
⸻
Miss Eliza felt it too.
She stood at the edge of town that afternoon and turned slowly toward the north side.
"Not another," she murmured.
The ground beneath her feet did not shift.
But the air felt tighter.
"Water spreads," her grandmother had said. "But blood carries faster."
She exhaled sharply.
This was the branch she had feared.
⸻
The girl sensed it in a different way.
She was at school when the engineer walked past the classroom window.
He had been called in to check the building's drainage systems.
She looked up from her notebook mid-sentence.
Her gaze locked onto his wrist.
The faint green line beneath his skin was visible even from across the room.
It branched.
Her breath caught.
The pulse beneath the school building trembled in faint sympathy.
Not as steady as hers.
Not as deep as his.
Shallow.
Unstable.
She did not like the way it felt.
Not anchored.
Not guided.
Like water forced through a crack too narrow.
⸻
That night, the engineer dreamed of standing in water.
Not deep.
Ankle-high.
He stood alone in a culvert tunnel that stretched far longer than it should have.
Water trickled steadily around his boots.
At the far end of the tunnel stood a tall shape.
Motionless.
Watching.
He tried to step backward.
His feet would not lift.
The water thickened.
He woke with his heart pounding.
His wrist burned faintly now.
The green branching had crept halfway to his elbow.
He stood abruptly and walked to the bathroom mirror.
Under fluorescent light, the lines beneath his skin were unmistakable.
Veins.
But wrong.
Too symmetrical.
Too deliberate.
He pressed his thumb hard against one.
It did not blanch.
It deepened.
His reflection in the mirror seemed taller for a fraction of a second.
Broader.
Then it snapped back.
He stepped away slowly.
"No," he whispered.
The pulse beneath his house stirred.
⸻
In the swamp clearing, he felt the engineer's fear ripple outward.
The second current surged briefly.
Uncontrolled.
Roots beneath the engineer's yard trembled.
Soil softened.
Water lines beneath the street rattled faintly.
The instinct within him stirred.
Not spread.
Not claim.
Correct.
He stepped into the water.
Branches along his back thickened again.
The seven trees leaned inward.
He extended awareness toward the engineer.
The second current flared at the contact.
Confusion.
Panic.
The engineer stumbled backward into his kitchen as a cabinet door swung open without touch.
A glass fell and shattered on tile.
The water in his sink rippled though the faucet was off.
He grabbed the counter to steady himself.
The pulse within his arm surged downward.
Not into soil.
Into bone.
He cried out, collapsing to one knee.
Across town, the girl pressed her palm against the classroom desk.
"He's not ready," she whispered.
The pulse beneath the school flickered in agreement.
Miss Eliza stepped out onto her porch and closed her eyes.
"Guide it," she murmured toward the swamp. "Or it will tear him apart."
He felt her words not as language but as direction.
The second current was unstable.
Not anchored to soil.
Not supported by roots.
If it surged unchecked, it would split the engineer from within.
If he cut it off entirely—
It might jump elsewhere.
He stepped deeper into the swamp.
The water rose to his chest.
The branches along his back extended outward like ribs forming a cage.
He reached through the pulse carefully.
Not pulling.
Aligning.
The engineer's breathing slowed slightly.
The green branching along his arm stopped creeping upward.
Instead, it thinned.
Redirected.
Downward.
Into his palm.
The engineer gasped as warmth pooled in his hand.
The skin at the center of his palm darkened faintly.
Not spreading.
Concentrating.
He collapsed forward, unconscious.
The pulse within him stabilized.
Small.
Contained.
Across town, the girl exhaled.
Miss Eliza opened her eyes slowly.
"He's chosen," she whispered.
In the swamp, he stepped back from the water.
The seven trees straightened.
The second current no longer flailed wildly.
It hummed faintly.
Separate.
Not a root in soil.
A root in flesh.
The inheritance had branched.
Not through flood.
Not through proximity alone.
Through contact.
He turned his head toward town.
This was not expansion.
This was multiplication.
And multiplication did not always obey the first source.
The engineer lay on his kitchen floor as rain began lightly outside.
When he woke hours later, the green branching along his arm had faded into a single dark line centered in his palm.
He flexed his fingers slowly.
The warmth remained.
Not invasive.
Present.
He stood unsteadily and walked to the sink.
Turned on the faucet.
The water flowed normally.
But as he watched—
The stream bent slightly toward his hand.
Just slightly.
He did not scream.
He did not run.
He stared at his palm.
And somewhere in the swamp—
He felt the second current steady itself.
Not as threat.
Not as rival.
But as something that could either fracture the balance—
Or reinforce it.
The rain fell steadily over town.
And beneath asphalt and soil and bone—
The river divided.