The garden bloomed again before dawn.
I woke to the faint rustle of leaves — not outside, but inside. The sound came from the hallway, soft and deliberate, like a hand brushing across the walls. When I sat up, the air smelled faintly of moss and wet soil.
The house was quiet otherwise. The kind of quiet that didn't feel empty but expectant.
When I opened my door, I saw them.
Tiny white flowers had sprouted along the floorboards, following the seams of the wood in perfect, straight lines. Their petals glowed faintly, breathing with that same pulse that had been under my skin since the shrine.
I followed the line down the hall, careful not to step on any of them. They led to the back door.
And when I opened it —
The world outside was green.
Not the green of grass or trees, but a deep, breathing color that seemed alive in itself. The garden that had once devoured my aunt had returned, stretching beyond the yard, beyond the fence, across the fields that led to the forest. Flowers like eyes, vines that swayed though there was no wind, and the faint hum of something vast and awake.
The world was watching.
---
I should've run.
Instead, I stood there, caught between fear and fascination. The morning air was still cold, and every breath I took tasted faintly of sweetness — like nectar and decay mixed together.
The vines closest to the porch lifted slightly, reaching toward me. They didn't attack or grab — they just waited.
Something deep inside my chest responded. A slow, rhythmic warmth beneath the skin of my neck pulsed in time with the movement of the plants.
We were breathing together.
I took one step forward. The wood beneath my foot groaned softly, and one of the vines shivered — a faint tremor of acknowledgment.
It was like being recognized.
And then — a voice.
> "You came back."
It wasn't human. It was soft, layered — like several whispers stacked into one. I couldn't tell if it came from the air, the roots, or my own mind.
I froze. "Who… are you?"
> "You already know."
The flowers shifted slightly.
The petals bent toward me — not in the shape of faces, but almost like they were listening.
> "The garden remembers what it takes. And what it gives."
My throat tightened. "You took her."
> "We became her."
I stepped back. "No. You—"
> "You carry her voice now, don't you hear it?"
The pulse in my neck quickened — throb, throb, throb — and for a moment, beneath the whisper, I heard another sound: a faint hum that was unmistakably my aunt's. The same melody she used to hum while pruning the garden.
Soft. Gentle. Loving.
My chest ached.
> "She didn't die," the voice continued. "She bloomed."
I closed the door.
---
I spent the next hour pacing the kitchen, trying not to look out the windows. The morning light had turned strange — slightly tinted green, like the world outside was bleeding through the glass.
I tried to boil water again, but when I opened the tap, what came out wasn't water.
It was thick.
Clear, but viscous — shimmering faintly, carrying the faint scent of pollen.
Sap.
It flowed normally for a few seconds, then stopped with a quiet gurgle.
I backed away and turned off the handle. My reflection in the metal faucet was distorted — stretched, almost as if the surface of it was rippling.
When I caught my breath again, I noticed something else: the flowers that had appeared inside were spreading. Slowly. Across the walls, the floor, even the edges of the table.
And every single one faced the same direction — toward me.
---
By noon, the sky was overcast, though no clouds had formed. The light had that sickly green tint still, and outside, the wind carried faint whispers, like thousands of leaves murmuring secrets I couldn't quite make out.
I couldn't stay here.
So I left.
I walked toward the center of the village, hoping — foolishly — that someone else would see what I did. But when I reached the first row of houses, my heart sank.
Everything was blooming.
The rooftops were covered in vines, the roads lined with roots, the air heavy with pollen. But the people —
They acted like nothing had changed.
Children ran through the streets. The baker smiled, dusting flour off his hands. Aya stood in front of the school, waving as if the world wasn't dissolving around her.
"Mizu! Over here!"
Her voice was the same as always — light, cheerful, normal.
I walked over, though every step felt heavier, as if the ground was trying to hold me in place.
"Where have you been?" she asked. "You didn't answer your phone."
I stared at her. "Aya, do you see any of this?"
She blinked. "Any of what?"
I gestured around us — to the roots, the vines, the pale glow that coated every surface. But she looked straight through it all.
"Mizu, you're scaring me."
Her hand reached toward me, but I stepped back. "Don't touch me."
She frowned. "Why are you—"
Then she froze.
Because for a single moment — just one — the petals around us moved.
They leaned toward her.
And she didn't notice.
Her expression flickered — confusion, then concern, then something else entirely. Her pupils dilated slightly. A faint shimmer ran along her cheek.
"Mizu," she whispered, voice smaller now, "you look like her."
"…Who?"
"My mother," she said softly. "Before she disappeared."
The words hit like ice. "Your mother—?"
Aya smiled faintly, distant. "She went into the forest one night, said the garden was calling. Everyone said she lost her mind." Her gaze drifted to the trees beyond the road. "But sometimes I dream of her voice in the soil."
Her tone was flat. Detached.
Then she blinked and smiled again. "Anyway! Want to get something to eat?"
Like nothing had happened.
I just nodded.
---
We went to the small tea shop by the square. It used to be my aunt's favorite place.
Inside, the smell was faintly floral — too floral. Every cup on the shelves was filled with petals instead of tea leaves, and the owner hummed softly as he poured steaming liquid that shimmered green.
Aya took a sip. "It's so good today!"
I stared at her cup. The liquid inside seemed to move on its own, faint ripples forming shapes that almost looked like eyes.
I didn't touch mine.
The owner looked at me. His smile was kind, but there was something wrong about it — too wide, too symmetrical. When he blinked, a petal slipped out from beneath his eyelid and fell into his drink.
He didn't notice.
"Drink," he said softly. "It's the season for blooming."
Aya laughed. "You sound like my mom used to!"
He smiled wider. "Maybe she found peace."
I pushed the cup away and stood up. "I have to go."
"Mizu?" Aya reached for me, but I was already out the door.
The air outside was thicker now. The world pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
And through it all, the garden whispered.
> "You can't leave what you are."
---
The streets were empty when I looked back.
Aya wasn't following me. The tea shop door was still open, though — swaying slightly, like someone had nudged it. From inside came the faint sound of humming, and beneath that, something else. A low vibration. Alive.
The air itself trembled.
I walked faster.
Every step echoed strangely now, like the sound was being swallowed before it reached the end of the street. The vines that had crept over the rooftops were thicker here, their tendrils hanging like curtains. The flowers along them were pulsing softly, almost like breathing.
The closer I got to the shrine road, the louder the hum became.
It wasn't the same as before — not mournful, not ghostly. It was steady. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat that stretched through the soil itself.
I followed it.
When I reached the base of the hill, I realized what it was.
The roots from the shrine had broken through the ground again — thick and luminous, twisting like veins under translucent skin. They ran down the hill, into the river, across the fields. The whole village was webbed in them now.
And they were all connected to one thing.
The garden.
---
When I reached the gate of the shrine, the air changed.
It was heavy — thick with that sweet scent of blooming petals, but also something sharper underneath, like rot that hadn't quite finished turning into soil.
The torii gate had cracked down the middle. Vines coiled through the split, shimmering faintly. And just beyond them, the courtyard was covered in white flowers. Thousands of them. Each one turned toward the same direction — the shrine door.
It was open.
I stepped inside.
The light dimmed immediately. The world outside fell silent. Inside, the air was cool and wet, the floor soft underfoot. Roots had overtaken everything — walls, ceiling, altar. They pulsed faintly, breathing in a rhythm I could feel in my own pulse.
> "Welcome home."
The voice was behind me this time — close, human.
I turned.
And saw her.
My aunt.
Or what looked like her.
She stood in the center of the room, barefoot, her skin pale as milk. Her hair hung damp over her shoulders, streaked with green veins. Her eyes glowed faintly — not inhuman, not entirely human either.
She smiled softly. "You came back."
I couldn't speak.
She stepped forward, her feet barely making a sound on the living floor. "I told you not to follow the roots. But I knew you would. It's in us."
"…You're not her," I whispered.
She tilted her head. "Aren't I? I remember the way you used to fall asleep on the porch. The way you hated the sound of cicadas. I remember your mother's laugh."
Her voice was right. Perfectly right. Even the way she breathed between words was the same.
But there was something else beneath it — a second tone, layered in time with hers, like something speaking through her.
"What do you want from me?"
She smiled again. "Nothing. You already gave it."
---
She reached toward me, her fingers pale and trembling. I backed away instinctively, but the vines behind me shifted, closing the door. The sound of wood snapping filled the room.
She stopped a few steps away, watching me carefully. "You've felt it, haven't you? The pulse. The warmth. The garden doesn't take — it shares."
My breath came out uneven. "You killed her."
"She was dying anyway. Everything dies, Mizu. We only gave her another form."
Her tone was gentle, like explaining something to a child. "The world above forgets. But down here, nothing is lost."
She knelt, placing her hand on the floor. The roots beneath her skin pulsed once. The floor answered — a deep throb that rippled through the room.
The flowers around us opened wider.
> "Do you hear them?" she whispered.
And I did.
A chorus of voices, faint but countless. Some crying, some laughing, some just humming. All layered together in that same steady rhythm.
The sound wasn't coming from the air. It was coming from below.
I wanted to scream. To run. But the warmth in my neck surged again — spreading down my shoulder, into my arm. My vision blurred.
I stumbled forward, catching myself on one of the roots. It pulsed beneath my hand, and for a moment — I wasn't in the shrine anymore.
---
The air shifted.
I was standing in the same place, but the room around me was different — brighter. Alive. The shrine walls were whole, the air fresh with incense. My aunt was kneeling by the altar, arranging flowers in a vase. She was smiling, humming softly.
Then she turned — the same smile, the same eyes — and looked at me. "Mizu? You're early."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came.
She laughed. "Did you forget something again?" She gestured toward the door. "Your lunchbox, right?"
Her voice was so normal. So painfully ordinary. For a heartbeat, I wanted to believe it. To step forward, to reach for her hand like I used to.
But then I saw it.
The flowers in her vase — the same white blossoms that now covered the shrine — were bleeding.
Tiny drops of sap slid down their petals, pooling on the floor, where roots began to stir beneath them.
And my aunt's shadow on the wall wasn't hers.
It was something taller. Broader. And it was looking straight at me.
---
"Mizu."
The voice snapped me back.
I was on my knees, the floor wet beneath me. My aunt — or whatever she was — knelt opposite, her hand hovering over mine. "Don't fight it," she said softly. "The world above is fading. Let this one take root. Let us take root."
The roots beneath my skin surged, responding to her words. I could feel them now — thin threads moving under the surface, weaving through my veins, feeding something that wasn't mine.
> "Stop," I whispered.
She smiled sadly. "You can't. You're already part of it."
I grabbed her wrist — and for a second, our skin met.
The contact burned.
A flash of memory — her hands tending the garden, her laughter, the smell of fresh soil — then gone. Replaced by something darker.
The moment when the roots first took her. The moment she stopped screaming.
I pulled away with a gasp.
She didn't move. Her expression was calm, serene. "You saw it, didn't you?"
I backed away until I hit the wall. "You're lying."
"The garden doesn't lie," she said softly. "It only remembers."
The vines shifted behind her, parting slightly. Through the opening, I saw a faint light — deeper within the shrine, beyond what should've been walls. It flickered softly, like a pulse.
She stood and turned toward it. "Come. It's time you met what you've been growing."
---
I didn't follow immediately. My body wouldn't move — every nerve screamed to run, but the warmth under my skin had become something else now. A rhythm. A pull.
When I finally took a step, the vines moved aside on their own.
The passage beyond was narrow, the air heavy with mist. The walls pulsed faintly as I walked, light running through them like veins carrying breath. The sound grew louder — that heartbeat, steady and immense.
And then the corridor opened into a vast chamber.
The ceiling was lost in shadow. The floor was covered in petals, so thick they looked like snow. In the center, a massive root system rose like a tree turned upside down — hanging from above, dripping with luminous sap.
Beneath it, half-buried in soil and vines, was a shape.
Human.
---
At first, I thought it was just another statue — one of those moss-covered offerings that lined the old paths, worn down by time and prayer. But the longer I stared, the more I realized that it was breathing.
Slowly. Unevenly.
The shape beneath the roots wasn't carved stone. It was flesh.
A woman's body, half-fused with the soil. Her hair floated like threads in the mist, and her hands — pale, trembling — reached upward, fingers tangled in the roots above as if pleading for release.
The sap that dripped from the ceiling fell onto her face, tracing lines down her cheeks like tears. Her lips moved soundlessly at first, then with faint, broken words.
> "It's… still growing…"
The voice was faint, but familiar.
I took a step closer. The air thickened, heavy with that sweet, earthy scent that now made my stomach twist. The closer I got, the louder the pulse became — not in the air anymore, but in my bones.
My aunt stopped at the edge of the chamber. She bowed her head slightly, as if in reverence.
"This is where it began," she said softly. "Where we all return."
I swallowed hard. "What is it?"
She smiled faintly. "The heart."
The woman beneath the roots shuddered again. Her eyes fluttered open — milky white, clouded with veins that glowed faintly green. She looked at me without seeing, her lips moving in a slow rhythm.
And then, through her voice, I heard many others.
Dozens. Hundreds. Layered over each other like the rustle of leaves in wind.
> "Mizu…"
I froze.
The chorus swelled — the voices weaving through each other, some whispering, some sobbing, some laughing softly like children. My name echoed again, carried by all of them at once.
> "Mizu… come home…"
The woman's arm lifted weakly, reaching toward me.
I stumbled back, tripping over a root that moved beneath my foot like a snake. My shoulder slammed into the wall, but it wasn't stone — it was soft, pliant, alive. It breathed.
> "She's calling for you," my aunt said. "The garden remembers its seed."
I turned toward her. "What are you talking about?"
"You," she said, eyes glowing faintly. "You were born here. Before your parents left. The soil still remembers you."
"That's not true."
She smiled sadly. "You've felt it all along. Why do you think it reached for you first?"
The roots at my feet began to move, curling around my ankles. They weren't pulling — not yet — but they pulsed softly, matching my heartbeat.
> "Don't fight it," she whispered.
I bent down, grabbing one of the roots and tearing at it with my nails. It didn't break — it was like trying to rip muscle from bone. The sap that oozed out wasn't green, but red.
I stumbled backward, gasping. "This isn't life."
"Life and death are the same here," she said. "Just different blooms."
---
The chamber trembled.
The massive roots above began to shift, spreading outward like veins through the air. The petals on the floor lifted and swirled, carried by a wind that didn't exist. The woman at the center arched her back — and for a moment, I saw something move beneath her skin.
Dozens of smaller roots, writhing just below the surface.
Then her voice split — not one, but many.
> "Come… home… come home…"
The roots at my feet tightened.
I screamed, kicking, pulling, but every movement only made them tighten more. My breath caught in my throat. The smell of soil filled my nose, thick and choking.
My aunt watched silently.
> "You'll see," she murmured. "Once it takes you, there's no pain. Just peace. Just belonging."
Her voice broke slightly, like something in her still remembered what it felt like to be afraid.
I clawed at the ground, grabbing a loose stone, anything to fight back. The light from above dimmed, turning the air green. The woman in the roots reached toward me again — her hand now inches from my face.
And then, without warning, she stopped.
Her eyes turned sharply to something behind me.
So did my aunt's.
---
A noise echoed through the chamber — a distant crack, like wood splitting.
The roots froze. The humming stopped.
Then, faintly, another sound — the slow creak of a door opening somewhere above. Light flickered through the ceiling, warm and golden, cutting through the green glow.
"Mizu!"
It was a voice. Human. Familiar.
Aya.
Her voice came again, distant but real. "Mizu! Are you down there?!"
The roots hesitated.
My aunt turned her head slightly, frowning. "She shouldn't be here…"
Her tone wasn't anger — it was confusion, almost fear.
The vines loosened around my ankles just enough for me to move. I twisted free, stumbling backward toward the passage. My breath came in short, sharp bursts, my chest burning.
My aunt reached out, her eyes wide now. "Don't—!"
But I was already running.
---
The corridor writhed as I passed through it — vines lashing out from the walls, trying to grab hold, but I didn't stop. I could see light ahead — faint, flickering, but enough.
When I burst through the shrine doors, the world outside hit me like air after drowning.
The night sky was alive with stars. The village below shimmered faintly with bioluminescent veins running through the soil. The wind was warm. The air sweet.
And Aya stood halfway up the hill, clutching a flashlight, her face pale and terrified.
"Mizu!" she shouted again, running toward me. "What— what happened? You disappeared!"
I couldn't speak. The words were trapped somewhere between my throat and my heartbeat. My clothes were soaked with sap, my hands trembling.
She reached me, grabbing my arm. "You're shaking— you're bleeding— what is this—?"
"Don't touch—" I started, but too late.
The moment her hand met my skin, the pulse surged.
A faint green line appeared under her wrist, glowing softly before fading.
She blinked. "What was—?"
But I pulled away, stepping back. "You shouldn't have come."
"Mizu, you're scaring me."
"Please," I said. "Go home. Forget everything."
She shook her head. "I can't. You— you look like you've seen a ghost."
I almost laughed.
Instead, I looked back at the shrine. The door was still open, the petals stirring faintly in the wind. But inside, there was no sound. No movement. Just the faint glow of sap dripping from the threshold.
The quiet had returned.
But it wasn't peace.
It was waiting.
---
Aya's voice pulled me back. "Mizu… what's happening to you?"
I didn't answer.
Because behind her, far down the hill, I could see the garden beginning to bloom again.
The flowers were opening all at once, their petals rising toward the night sky.
And for a single heartbeat, I thought I saw faces in them.
Smiling.
Waiting.