The greenhouse storage room smelled like damp soil and old wood.
It sat tucked behind the main greenhouse corridors, a narrow space filled with stacked crates of clay pots, sealed fertilizer containers, and long shelves of botanical tools that looked more like surgical instruments than gardening supplies.
Galathea Brooks pushed the door shut behind them.
The faint sounds of the greenhouse softened instantly --no rustling leaves, no distant hum of environmental systems.
Just quiet.
She helped Tansy sit on a low wooden bench beside a shelf of empty terracotta pots.
The girl's breathing had grown shallow again.
The dark pigment beneath her skin moved slowly now, thin veins drifting along her wrist like ink suspended in water.
Galathea forced herself not to stare.
"You're safe here," she said.
Tansy looked around the small room.
Her expression was calm, but the fatigue in her eyes was unmistakable.
"This place smells like earth," she murmured.
