The fog rolled low over the fields of Hawthorne that morning, thick like wet wool draped across the earth. Elora woke with the lingering sensation of something pressing gently against her skin—like the memory of fingers brushing along her arms while she slept. When she sat up, the window was misted, and the trees outside barely visible.
Mira was already in the kitchen when Elora came down. The scent of chamomile and pine infused the air, and a cast iron pot steamed gently on the stove. The older woman stood by the counter, her long robe trailing across the tiled floor as she stirred something green and bubbling in a wide ceramic bowl.
"Morning," Elora said, rubbing her eyes.
Mira didn't look at her. "You've been restless."
Elora hesitated. "Yeah. I didn't really sleep."
Mira finally turned, her sharp green eyes searching Elora's face. "You feel it, don't you? The quiet changing?"
Elora didn't answer immediately. The answer was yes—of course she felt it. The silence in Hawthorne wasn't really silence. It was a hush. A waiting.
"I don't know what I feel," she admitted. "But something's off."
Mira walked over and placed a bowl of something thick and herbal-smelling in front of her. "Eat. You'll need strength today."
Elora stirred it with her spoon but didn't eat. Her eyes narrowed. "Are you going to tell me what's going on? Or are you just going to keep making vague comments until I explode from the suspense?"
Mira smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "There are things you'll come to understand on your own, in time. But until then—avoid the Knight family."
Elora blinked. "What? Why?"
"Because they're not safe," Mira said simply. "Not for you."
"You mean that boy from yesterday?"
Mira's face stayed still. "Especially him."
Elora crossed her arms. "He didn't do anything wrong. He just… left."
"That was the best thing he could've done," Mira replied.
Frustration flared in Elora's chest. "You're not telling me anything."
"I'm telling you what you need to know. Stay away from the Knights. You'll understand later."
By midday, the air had warmed just enough to lure Elora into the back garden for some space. Mira had disappeared into her study, as she often did when Elora pressed too hard. It left her alone with her thoughts and the echo of the morning's strange tension.
She wandered between the raised stone beds of herbs and roots, her fingers brushing the tops of fennel and lemon balm. She didn't know all their names, but the plants responded to her presence—turning subtly, leaning toward her like moths to a flame.
She knelt near the oldest tree in the garden—a crooked hawthorn with bark like weathered bone—and felt the ground beneath her hum.
That's when she heard the sound. A small, sharp chirping.
Her gaze flicked toward the ground, where something shimmered against the grass. A hummingbird, no bigger than her palm, lay quivering, one wing bent at a harsh angle. Its eyes blinked rapidly. Panicked.
Without thinking, Elora reached for it.
The moment her fingers closed around the tiny body, her pulse surged. A warm thrum moved through her palms like a second heartbeat. She had done this before—years ago, once, in the forest behind her parents' house. But she had forgotten how it felt.
She closed her eyes.
And pulled.
Not magic. Not quite. It was something deeper. Something older. Her body hummed with energy as her breath slowed. She felt the fracture in the bird's wing, the tremble of torn muscle. Her fingers glowed faintly green.
The bones shifted. Aligned. The wing twitched once. Twice. Then stilled.
When she opened her eyes, the hummingbird was blinking at her, calmer now. It gave a single flick of its wings—and flew.
Elora watched it until it disappeared beyond the treetops.
It was not the first time she had healed, but every time it shook her
Her parents told her she was a blessed one that was why she had an affinity with nature. She knew it was something more but Mira wasn't saying anything about it.
What normal person could close wounds and at the flick of her finger could make flowers bloom.
And only then did she realize her hands were shaking.
She rose on her feet to lose her self in nature.
She spent the afternoon wandering the edge of the woods until her phone buzzed.
Jessi: "You need to come over. My mom's baking and the chaos level is medium-low. Safe window."
Elora hesitated only a moment before typing back:
Elora: "On my way."
The Smith house was as loud and alive as ever. Jessi greeted her at the door with a lopsided grin and a paint smear across her nose.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Jessi said.
Elora shrugged. "Maybe I did."
"Perfect. That'll fit right in with dinner. Come on—Mom's making her famous garlic flatbread and my brother hasn't emotionally recovered from the last time I beat him at Uno."
Inside, the chaos was oddly comforting. Laughter bounced off every surface. The dog barked at wind. The oven timer beeped every few minutes. Jessi's mom hugged Elora again, this time dusted with flour. No one asked her too many questions. No one stared too long.
It was nothing like her own house. It was exactly what she needed.
She let herself breathe for the first time all day.
And beneath it all, far beneath the earth, the roots kept shifting.
----------------------
The sun dipped behind Hawthorne's thick tree line as Elora followed Jessi through the winding path to her house. The fading daylight left the sky brushed in soft purples and ember reds, but in Elora's chest, something pulsed with restless quiet—a strange echo of her morning's awakening that wouldn't settle.
"Prepare yourself," Jessi warned, throwing open the gate to her yard. "They've been baking all day. The house smells like sin and cinnamon."
Elora laughed faintly, more out of courtesy than amusement, and stepped into the Smiths' yard. It was the opposite of Mira's. Where Mira's was tamed and orderly, this garden was a vibrant riot of life. Weeds grew among flowers with no apologies, ivy climbed the porch columns like it owned them, and wind chimes made of forks and seashells danced in the breeze.
Inside, the house exploded with warmth and sound. Jessi's mom greeted Elora with a cloud of flour on her apron and a cheerful hug. Her younger brother ran past yelling something about a "cookie crisis," and Jessi's dad was yelling from the kitchen that he'd already "rescued the second batch."
Elora blinked, overwhelmed but oddly comforted. No ghosts here. No quiet eyes watching. No history holding its breath.
"Come on," Jessi said, tugging her toward the kitchen. "If you're fast, you might get a warm cookie."
By the time Elora made it to the table, Jessi had shoved a fresh snickerdoodle into her hand and poured two glasses of iced tea.
"Don't tell Mira," Jessi said, "but I think my mom's cookies could summon ancient gods."
Elora smiled and took a bite. It was warm, soft, and spiced just right.
"You okay?" Jessi asked, watching her over the rim of her glass.
Elora nodded. "Just tired."
"You've been off all day. Even in the garden earlier, you looked like you were trying to hear something no one else could."
Elora didn't answer right away. She picked at her napkin. "Do you ever feel like this place… knows things?"
Jessi leaned back. "Hawthorne? All the time. I've had dreams about people I hadn't met yet. Once I swore I saw someone walk into the woods and never come out—but no one else saw them. My mom thinks the land remembers. Like it holds onto stories."
Elora shivered. "It feels like remembers lots of things like me "
Jessi tilted her head. "Well, you are kind of unforgettable. You know, emerald eyes, tragic backstory, brooding energy. You're basically a fairy tale."
Elora gave her a faint smile but couldn't quite laugh. Something in her chest twisted—an invisible thread pulled tight.
Later, they moved to the backyard, where string lights dangled between trees, and fireflies blinked in and out of existence.
Jessi flopped into a hammock. "Alright, rapid-fire: favorite color, favorite smell, biggest irrational fear."
Elora sat on the grass. "Green, fresh rain, and birds flying into windows."
Jessi squinted. "That's oddly specific."
"It happened once. Scarred me."
They laughed. The kind that builds quietly, not from humor, but from comfort.
As the evening settled into crickets and rustling leaves, Elora stood and wandered toward the edge of the yard. There was a patch of wild mint growing against the fence. She knelt down and brushed her fingers over it.
The moment she touched the leaves, the scent sharpened. The stems straightened. The air around her shifted.
She closed her eyes and whispered without meaning to, "Grow."
And it did.
Just a little. Just enough.
But Jessi didn't see. She was still swinging lazily in the hammock, humming off-key.
Elora pulled her hand back, her heart racing.
She couldn't tell Jessi. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.
This part of her—the strange, pulsing root inside her—wasn't ready to be shared. Especially not with someone who made her feel human. Normal. Safe.
They went inside as the chill of night crept in. Jessi's mom sent them home with a tin of cookies and a warning to "watch the moon—it's hungry tonight."
They laughed, but Elora kept glancing up at the sky.
The moon hung low. Watching.
And the whisper she'd felt earlier, in the mint, in the soil—it came again.
Not a word this time.
Just presence.