---
By morning, the flowers had vanished.
The entire village smelled faintly of rain and ash, though the sky was clear. I stood at my window for a long time, watching the streets below — the empty road, the still trees, the curtains fluttering in the houses across from mine.
Everything looked the same.
But nothing felt the same.
When I leaned closer to the glass, I could still see faint green veins running through the dirt along the path. They shimmered like threads under the sunlight, almost invisible unless you looked too long.
And I had looked too long.
Because when I blinked, they pulsed.
---
I dressed in silence. The uniform's fabric felt strange against my skin — softer, lighter, like something between cloth and breath. I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze.
The faint green line on my neck was still there. But it had spread.
Now it reached my collarbone, curling like a vine. When I touched it, the surface felt warmer than the rest of my skin — as if something beneath it was awake.
I tugged my sleeve down, covering it, and tried not to think about the way it moved when I breathed.
Aunt's voice echoed in the back of my head:
> "It doesn't take. It shares."
I didn't know what that meant anymore.
---
The kitchen was empty again. Her shoes were gone this time. The cup on the table had shattered — as if someone had dropped it mid-sip.
When I opened the back door, the garden waited.
It looked… normal.
No glowing veins, no pulsing roots. Just soil, flowers, dew. The morning light made everything look softer than it should.
But I couldn't step outside. My feet wouldn't move.
Because I could feel something watching from beneath the surface — a faint vibration under the boards, like the house itself was breathing.
I closed the door.
---
School was quieter that day.
Half the class was absent. No explanation. The teacher didn't mention it, just continued reading aloud from the textbook in that same even tone, as though nothing was wrong.
Aya sat beside me, twirling a pencil between her fingers.
Her skin looked paler today. The faint green under her wrist was gone — or maybe it was deeper now, hidden under her veins. When she turned toward me, her eyes were glassy, but her smile was steady.
"You look tired," she said softly.
"I didn't sleep."
She laughed lightly. "Who does anymore?"
I looked at her. "What do you mean?"
Aya blinked. "I don't know. I think I dreamed of something, but…" She frowned. "It felt like roots. You know? Twisting under everything."
Her tone was casual, but the way her hand gripped the pencil — tight enough to crack it — told a different story.
When the teacher asked her to read, she didn't move. Her eyes were distant, fixed on the corner of the room.
I followed her gaze.
A crack had formed along the ceiling — thin, white, winding down the wall like a vine.
---
At lunch, the sky darkened even though there were no clouds.
A faint shimmer — like pollen — drifted through the air. It sparkled when it caught the light, settling on desks, hair, skin.
No one seemed to notice.
I brushed a speck from my sleeve and froze. It wasn't dust. It was a petal — tiny, translucent, green-veined.
Aya smiled. "Pretty, isn't it?"
I stared at her. "You see it too?"
"Of course," she said. "They're everywhere now."
Her voice was so calm. Too calm.
And when she looked back out the window, I saw something in her reflection — something behind her eyes. A faint shimmer, like light filtering through leaves.
I couldn't eat.
By the time the bell rang, my hands were trembling. The petals had melted into the air, leaving only the smell of soil behind.
---
On the walk home, everything was wrong in ways I couldn't describe.
The air was too still. The houses too quiet. The people who passed me on the road smiled a little too wide — and each time, I noticed the same faint green tint in their eyes.
The village wasn't asleep anymore.
It was awake.
And it was breathing.
---
When I reached home, the front door was open.
Not fully — just enough to creak with each shift of wind. I stepped inside, calling softly, "Aunt?"
No answer.
The smell hit first — sweet, almost floral, but sharp enough to sting the back of my throat.
The floorboards creaked beneath my feet.
Then I saw them.
Petals — white at first, then faintly green — scattered across the hallway. They led toward the back of the house.
Toward the garden door.
I followed them.
The air grew colder with each step, though the light outside still shone bright through the windows. My pulse synced with the sound beneath the floor — that slow, steady rhythm I had begun to recognize.
When I reached the door, I hesitated.
Something told me not to open it.
But the smell — that rich, intoxicating scent — was stronger than thought.
I turned the handle.
The hinges groaned.
And the garden breathed.
---
The garden was unrecognizable.
What had once been a patch of overgrown weeds and scattered flowers had transformed into a sea of pale green light. The soil itself pulsed faintly — veins of luminescence running beneath it, like the entire ground was alive.
Every petal, every leaf shimmered as if breathing in unison.
And in the middle of it all, something stood.
At first, I thought it was a tree. But the longer I stared, the less certain I became. Its trunk was too smooth, too human in shape. Branches stretched outward like arms, covered in blossoms that looked like open eyes.
And at its base — there was a shadow.
A shape that was almost familiar.
My voice broke the silence. "Aunt?"
The figure turned.
---
She stood half-merged with the roots, her face calm and her eyes soft with something like relief. The vines had wrapped around her arms, her torso, her neck — gently, like a second skin.
"Don't be afraid," she said. Her voice was warm, distant, like it came from the other side of a dream. "It's finally awake."
I took a step forward. "What… what is it?"
"The heart," she whispered. "The one buried beneath this place. It called to us, for so long. Now it breathes again."
I shook my head. "You said it was dying—"
"It was," she said. "But death is only sleep for what's alive. The soil remembers. The roots remember. We are only vessels."
The words felt wrong, heavy with meaning I didn't understand.
She lifted a hand, and I saw the faint green veins glowing beneath her skin. The same ones I had on mine.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she asked softly. "The pulse under your heart. It's been waiting for you."
---
The air shimmered around us. The petals began to rise, drawn upward by some invisible wind.
And then — I heard it.
A heartbeat.
Not mine. Not hers. Something deeper.
It came from below.
The ground trembled, faintly at first, then stronger. The vines along the fence began to crawl, spreading across the walls of the house, the stones, the trees.
Aunt didn't flinch. Her expression was peaceful, like someone hearing a lullaby.
"Do you see?" she whispered. "It's remembering the shape of us."
I reached for her — but my hand stopped just short.
Because her body… was changing.
The green beneath her skin brightened, spreading like wildfire. Her hair flowed upward, as if caught in invisible water, and her eyes glowed softly — the same color as the light beneath the soil.
When she smiled, it wasn't a human smile anymore.
"You shouldn't resist it," she said. "It hurts less if you let go."
---
I stumbled back. My pulse hammered.
The roots twisted toward me. Slowly. Curiously.
They didn't grab — they touched. Like fingertips brushing skin. Warm. Alive.
And for a brief, terrifying moment, I understood what she meant.
There was no malice in it. Only hunger — not the kind that devours, but the kind that connects. It wanted to make everything one.
I could feel the same rhythm beating through my veins. The mark on my collarbone flared, burning through the fabric.
When I looked down, green light pulsed beneath my chest, syncing with the heartbeat from the ground.
It was calling to me.
---
Then a sound broke through — sharp, human, real.
Aya's voice.
"Stop!"
I turned. She stood at the gate, her eyes wide, her breathing ragged.
For the first time since morning, her voice sounded alive.
"What are you doing?!" she shouted.
Aunt turned slowly toward her, and for a moment, the light around her dimmed. "You shouldn't be here, child. It isn't your time."
Aya's hands trembled, but she didn't move back. "She's not going anywhere with you."
Aunt tilted her head. "I'm not taking her. I'm showing her the truth."
Aya stepped closer, and I saw it — faint green veins under her eyes, spreading just like mine.
"You're already connected," Aunt said softly. "You can't stop it."
Aya's voice cracked. "Maybe not. But I can still fight it."
Then she grabbed my arm.
The moment her skin touched mine, the vines recoiled — hissing, shrinking into the soil. The light flickered, and the heartbeat beneath the earth faltered.
For a second, everything went still.
And then —
The garden screamed.
---
The sound wasn't human. It came from everywhere and nowhere — a chorus of voices, roots, wind, soil. The petals burst into the air like a storm, glowing brighter, spinning around us.
Aya pulled me toward the gate, shouting something I couldn't hear over the roar.
The light was blinding now.
When I looked back, I saw Aunt reaching toward me — not in anger, but in sorrow.
> "Remember what it feels like," she mouthed.
"When the petals fall."
Then everything turned white.
---
I woke to silence.
The air smelled of smoke and rain. The garden was gone — nothing but charred soil and gray dust.
Aya sat beside me, covered in ash, staring at the ground.
Her hands shook. "It's over," she said weakly. "It's gone."
But when I looked at my arm, I knew she was wrong.
Because beneath my skin, faint and steady, the green light still pulsed.
Alive.
Waiting.
---
We didn't speak for a long time.
The ashes around us were still warm, curling softly in the morning wind. The garden — or whatever it had become — was nothing more than a circle of blackened soil. The fence had collapsed, the house was half-covered in soot, and the air shimmered faintly, as if the fire hadn't really died yet.
Aya sat with her knees pulled to her chest, eyes red from smoke or tears — maybe both. Her hair was tangled, her uniform stained with dirt and streaks of green.
"Do you think she's…" she began, voice thin.
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know what to say.
Aunt's last words still echoed inside me.
> Remember what it feels like when the petals fall.
The ground beneath my hand was warm. Not from the fire — from something deeper. Something still alive.
---
We walked back through the forest in silence. The trees leaned inward, their branches drooping, as if they were listening. The fog had thinned, but the air was heavy with the scent of burnt flowers.
Every step made a soft crunch underfoot — not dirt, but something brittle and hollow.
When we reached the old shrine road, Aya finally spoke.
"She was right about one thing," she said. "It's not gone."
I looked at her.
She pressed her hand to her neck, and I saw it — faint green veins, pulsing like mine.
"She touched me too," Aya whispered. "That day at the well. I didn't tell you because… I thought it was just a dream."
Her voice trembled. "Now I can hear it, Mizu. The heartbeat. Every night. Like it's under the whole village."
---
We stopped by the river. The water reflected the clouds, calm and silver.
I crouched down and dipped my hand in. For a moment, it felt cold — then warm — then something else entirely. The ripples spread outward, glowing faintly green before fading.
Aya stared. "It's spreading."
I pulled my hand out quickly, but the light stayed under the surface, trailing away downstream.
"It's using us," I said quietly. "To move. To grow."
Aya swallowed. "Then what do we do?"
I looked at the water, at my reflection — pale skin, hollow eyes, and that faint light under my collarbone.
"I don't know," I said. "But I think… it's waiting for something."
---
That night, I couldn't rest.
The house creaked again, slower now, heavier. The air felt thicker, almost breathing. I sat by the window, watching the forest. In the dark, I could see faint green flickers moving between the trees — like fireflies, but slower, deliberate.
I tried to ignore it, to tell myself it was the wind. But when I closed my eyes, I heard her voice again.
> "Don't fight it."
"It remembers you."
The sound wasn't like memory. It was present, whispering right beside my ear.
And then —
> "Come to the well."
---
The next morning, Aya wasn't at school.
No one seemed to notice.
The teacher smiled, said attendance was perfect. The students laughed, the sunlight poured through the windows — but her seat was filled by someone else.
A girl with the same hair color. The same height. Even the same handwriting on her notebook.
When I asked who she was, the teacher looked confused. "Aya? She's always been in this class, hasn't she?"
The room tilted slightly.
I walked out mid-lesson, ignoring the murmurs. Outside, the air shimmered faintly, the same hue of green I'd seen in the garden.
Something was rewriting itself.
---
The shrine road was empty when I arrived.
The well stood where it always had — silent, moss-covered, unassuming. The ground around it was soft, damp.
When I leaned over, I expected darkness. Instead, I saw light.
Pale green, rising from below like mist.
It pulsed. Once. Twice. Then a faint sound drifted up — like a heartbeat through water.
And beneath it, something whispered.
> "You came back."
I froze.
> "She's waiting," the voice said. "Below."
The soil under my feet began to shift. The moss peeled back, revealing the same glowing veins that had appeared in the garden. They pulsed faintly in rhythm with my own heartbeat.
Then —
A crack.
Something in the well moved.
---
I stepped back, but roots lashed upward, curling around the stones. They weren't attacking — they were reaching.
The air grew heavy, damp. The fog thickened until the forest disappeared completely.
Through the mist, I saw her.
Aya.
Standing on the other side of the well.
Her eyes glowed softly. Her expression was calm — too calm.
"Aya?" I whispered.
She smiled. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Her voice wasn't quite hers. It layered over itself, like multiple tones speaking at once.
"You can feel it too, can't you? The warmth?"
I shook my head. "That's not you."
She tilted her head, and for a moment, her smile faltered — not out of pain, but out of curiosity.
"It's still fighting," she murmured. "How strange."
The vines tightened around the stones.
"Come closer," she said. "It's easier if you stop pretending."
---
The mist trembled. The well glowed brighter.
When she stepped forward, her feet didn't disturb the soil. The vines parted for her, almost bowing.
I took a step back. "Aya, listen—"
But before I could finish, she raised her hand — and the ground beneath me opened.
I fell.
No scream, no sound. Just the sensation of being swallowed by warm, pulsing earth.
Roots brushed against my skin, wrapping around me, holding me, not cruelly — almost tenderly.
The world faded into green.
And beneath it all, a voice echoed:
> "You're finally home."
---
I landed softly, as if on water. The air glowed faintly, and I found myself standing in a vast underground space.
Above me, translucent roots formed a ceiling like veins of glass. They pulsed slowly, light flowing through them in waves.
At the center of the cavern — a heart.
Gigantic. Living.
Its surface shimmered with veins of gold and green, every beat echoing through the chamber.
And standing before it — my aunt.
She turned, smiling gently.
"See?" she said. "It never dies. It just waits for us to return."
I stared at the heart. Its rhythm matched my own perfectly.
"What is it?" I whispered.
"The memory of the world," she said. "Before it forgot what it was."
Her voice was calm, almost reverent. "Every flower, every drop of rain, every life that ever touched the soil — all of it is kept here. Waiting to bloom again."
---
"But it's using us," I said. "It's taking people."
She nodded softly. "It doesn't take. It reclaims."
Her hand reached out, brushing the glowing surface of the heart. The veins beneath her skin brightened. "You call it death. It calls it belonging."
I shook my head. "That's not life."
"Then what is?" she asked.
Her words lingered in the air, heavy, echoing.
And in that silence, I realized something — the mark on my collarbone wasn't just reacting. It was syncing. My pulse matched the heart's rhythm exactly.
She smiled faintly. "It's already begun."
---
The vines along the walls shifted. From their ends, shapes began to emerge — faces, faint, translucent. The villagers. The teacher. The clerk.
Even Aya.
All of them whispered in unison:
> "It's time to bloom."
The light intensified until it swallowed everything.
And in that final instant, before the world turned green again —
I heard the heartbeat stop.
Just once.
Then the petals began to fall.