When I opened my eyes again, the morning light was already filling my room.
For a few seconds, I thought everything had been a dream. The fog, the soil, Yui — all of it.
The ceiling above me looked normal. The same cracks in the plaster, the same peeling wallpaper.
The same smell of detergent and wilted flowers.
I sat up slowly. My head throbbed like I hadn't slept in days.
The first thing I noticed was the sound.
Silence.
No birds. No cars. Not even the faint hum of cicadas that always filled the countryside mornings.
Just the faint ticking of the old clock by the window.
I touched my chest. My heart was still beating too fast.
When I pushed the blanket away, I froze.
My shoes were still on.
Mud clung to the soles, dried into thick crusts.
My hands were dirty too — the faint traces of soil under my nails.
And then the worst part: the seed was on my nightstand.
Exactly where it shouldn't be.
I didn't remember bringing it here.
It lay perfectly still, but even from where I sat, I could feel it pulsing — slow, faint, like it was breathing through the wood.
---
The sound of the front door opening downstairs startled me.
My aunt's voice followed, calm and cheerful.
> "Mizu? You're awake, dear?"
I nearly fell out of bed.
Her voice was too normal.
After everything I'd seen — the garden swallowing her, the roots bursting through the floor — that voice shouldn't exist anymore.
I stood on shaky legs and stepped into the hallway.
The house looked the same, but something about it was off.
The colors felt muted. The light through the curtains was pale, filtered — like sunlight through fog.
Every surface smelled faintly of soil.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my aunt was in the kitchen, humming.
The same tune she used to hum while trimming flowers.
She turned, smiling when she saw me.
> "Good morning, Mizu. You gave everyone quite the scare."
Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything stopped.
Because her eyes —
They were brown before.
Now, they were the color of wet earth.
I forced a smile. "Good morning…"
> "You've been sleeping for days," she said, pouring tea like nothing was wrong. "I almost thought you wouldn't wake up."
I didn't sit. I couldn't.
The smell of the tea was wrong — too sweet, almost metallic.
She noticed me staring.
> "Oh, this? Don't worry. Just something new I'm trying."
Her voice softened.
"It's good for growth."
---
After breakfast, I went outside.
The village was quiet — unnervingly quiet.
A few people walked by, but they didn't seem to notice me. When they did glance my way, their smiles were polite, identical.
I tried to remember if this was how it had always been.
Had the streets always looked this clean?
Had the air always smelled like rain?
The more I looked, the more I noticed the changes.
The trees lining the road were greener, fuller — almost unnaturally so.
Grass grew through the cracks in the pavement, swaying without wind.
And there were flowers everywhere.
They hadn't been there before.
Clusters of pale blossoms growing in gutters, in fence posts, even out of the corners of houses.
All of them the same shade of gray-white.
All of them with petals too soft, too… fleshy.
I touched one out of instinct — and pulled my hand back instantly.
The petal was warm.
---
At school, everyone stared.
Whispers followed me down the hallways.
Some people smiled at me — the same practiced smile my aunt gave me that morning. Others just avoided my eyes completely.
When I sat at my desk, I noticed something carved into the wood — faint, but fresh.
A single phrase:
"The garden remembers."
I pressed my fingers over it, tracing the letters.
They felt deep, like whoever carved them wanted to make sure they couldn't be erased.
Yui's seat, two rows over, was empty.
It had always been empty since she disappeared.
But now, someone had placed a vase on top of her desk.
Inside it, a single flower — gray-white, petals curled like they were still alive.
When I looked away, I could've sworn the flower turned slightly toward me.
---
At lunch, my classmate — the one who'd found me on the road — sat across from me.
Her name was Ayaka. I remembered her because she always carried a notebook filled with pressed leaves.
> "You really don't remember anything, do you?" she asked.
I hesitated. "About what?"
She lowered her voice.
> "About what happened before you disappeared."
I looked down at my tray. The rice tasted like nothing.
"I… don't know."
She leaned closer.
> "They say people heard you talking to yourself. Near the old shrine. They said you were laughing."
I froze. "That's not true."
> "Maybe not," she said quickly, then glanced toward the window. "But there's something weird about this village lately, don't you think?"
Her tone had changed. It wasn't gossip. It was fear.
> "I swear," she whispered, "I saw something move in my garden last night. The soil was breathing."
My blood went cold.
I wanted to tell her she wasn't imagining it — that she wasn't alone — but before I could say anything, the intercom crackled.
> "Ayaka, please report to the office."
She frowned. "Now?"
> "Immediately."
She stood slowly, giving me a confused glance before leaving.
When the door shut behind her, I noticed something on her chair — a faint smear of mud.
The same dark soil that clung to my shoes.
---
I didn't see Ayaka again that day.
When classes ended, the teacher said she "went home early."
But as I was walking past the old garden behind the gym, I saw something strange.
A patch of soil freshly turned over.
And in the middle of it — a single white flower.
Still wet with rain.
Still breathing.
The road curved gently downhill, leading toward the village square. I could hear the faint murmur of people — market chatter, clinking metal, even laughter. It should've been comforting, a sign of normalcy. But every sound felt slightly off, like an echo played a second too late.
As I walked closer, the familiar scent of soil gave way to something sweeter — cloying, like flowers kept in a sealed jar too long. I tried to breathe through my sleeve, but it clung to my throat.
The square was busier than I remembered. Women with baskets stood near the fountain, chatting; an old man sat on a stool, sharpening a knife. A child ran past me, holding what looked like a bouquet of wildflowers. The petals brushed my skirt, and I froze.
They were warm.
"Good morning," someone said behind me.
I turned.
It was the store clerk — the one who sold me rice and tea the week before. He smiled as if nothing was wrong, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. His pupils were wide, glossy, the faintest shade of green, like moss beneath glass.
"You've been gone," he said. "Your aunt mentioned you were helping in the garden."
My heart skipped. "My aunt?"
He tilted his head slightly. "She came by yesterday. Said the flowers were growing faster than ever."
I forced a nod, but my stomach twisted. My aunt… yesterday? The last thing I saw of her was her hand, pulled beneath the roots.
The man kept smiling. "She said you were learning fast."
I mumbled an excuse and walked away before he could say more. Every step echoed too loud. I could feel their eyes following me — not suspiciously, not maliciously, but expectantly. Like they were waiting for something to sprout.
---
By the time I reached the school gates, the unease had settled into a steady pulse.
Students were gathered near the courtyard, laughing and chatting as if everything was normal. But I noticed small details — dirt under fingernails that didn't wash off, faint scratches at the base of their necks, the smell of grass when they passed.
"Hey, Mizu!"
It was Aya — one of the few girls who ever spoke to me. She waved, cheerful as ever. Her smile was the same, but her eyes… her eyes looked wet, shimmering, like dew clung to them.
"You look pale," she said. "Didn't sleep?"
"I—yeah. Just tired."
She nodded, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A petal fell from it — small, white, and soft.
I froze.
She didn't seem to notice.
"Come on, let's go to class," she said, grabbing my arm. Her skin was cool, but beneath it, I felt something faint — a slow, rhythmic pulse, like sap moving through a stem.
I wanted to pull away. I didn't.
---
The day dragged like a dream I couldn't wake from. Teachers spoke, chalk scratched the board, students laughed — but none of it felt alive. The air hummed faintly, always that same tone, like the sound the soil made before the roots came.
By lunch, I couldn't take it anymore. I told Aya I wasn't feeling well and went to the restroom.
Inside, it was silent — except for the dripping of a leaky faucet. I turned on the tap to wash my face, and the water came out slightly brown.
At first, I thought it was rust. Then I smelled it.
Soil.
When I looked up, my reflection didn't look like me. My skin was pale, my hair slightly darker — and for a moment, I swore my pupils had that same faint green tint.
I blinked, and it was gone.
---
When I stepped back outside, I saw something that made my breath stop.
Across the field, near the back fence, a group of students knelt in a circle. Their hands were in the ground — digging, slow and methodical. I watched as one of them lifted something from the soil. It looked like a face — pale, petal-like, wet.
Then they all turned at once.
And smiled at me.
---
I stumbled backward, my hand on the wall. The world spun. A teacher's voice called something from the distance — but it was too faint to understand.
I turned and ran.
The air thickened, heavy with that floral scent again. Every street looked the same, every house perfectly neat, the flowers in every window blooming unnaturally wide.
When I finally stopped, I was at the edge of the forest. The fog was there, waiting — the same as before.
For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing in it.
A figure — tall, familiar. My aunt's outline, maybe.
She raised her hand, as if waving. Then the hand bent, unnaturally, folding like a stem in the wind.
I stepped back.
Something whispered behind me — close, warm against my ear.
> "You've grown nicely."
I turned. No one. Only the road, lined with flowers that hadn't been there before.
Each one had a human tooth at its center.
I didn't go home that night. I walked until the road stopped being a road and turned into dirt, until my shoes were covered in mud, until my legs trembled from exhaustion.
The fog never fully left — it lingered between the trees, soft and alive, like it was breathing in time with me. Every once in a while, I thought I heard something shuffle behind me, but when I turned, there was only silence.
By the time I reached the old bridge that led out of the village, dawn was breaking. The sky was a faded gray, and the air smelled of rain.
The bridge was rotting. Wooden boards creaked beneath my weight. I wanted to cross, but as soon as I set foot on the second plank, I saw it.
Roots.
Thin and white, crawling up the wooden posts like veins. They pulsed faintly — a heartbeat I could hear through my shoes.
I stepped back. The fog thickened again.
Someone whispered from the other side:
> "Don't leave. You haven't finished growing."
I ran.
---
By the time I reached the village again, the streets were quiet. The market stalls were empty, but the baskets were still there — filled with vegetables and flowers. Everything looked untouched, yet somehow watched.
I passed the general store. The door was open. The bell above it jingled softly in the wind.
"Hello?"
No answer.
Inside, the smell hit me — the same earthy sweetness, stronger now, almost rotten. The counter was covered in soil. Pots, broken and overturned. Behind it, I saw the clerk — the same man who spoke to me the day before.
He was standing perfectly still. His head tilted slightly forward, eyes open, staring at the floor.
"Sir?"
He didn't move.
I circled the counter, my heartbeat hammering. When I got close enough, I saw it — his neck. Something pale and thin had grown from it, curling upward like a stem.
It ended in a small, closed bud.
I stepped back, trembling. The bud twitched.
A tiny sound came from it — breathing.
---
I left the store and walked aimlessly, trying not to look at anyone. Most of the villagers moved slowly now, their motions synchronized — sweeping porches, watering flowers that didn't need water, smiling at nothing.
One woman turned her head as I passed. Her smile stretched too wide.
> "The garden's so beautiful this year," she said.
Her voice was calm, but something leaked from her mouth as she spoke — thin, brown liquid that smelled like wet soil. She wiped it away and kept smiling.
I ran. Again.
---
When I reached the schoolyard, I thought I saw Aya waiting near the gate. Relief hit me — real, human relief — until she turned around.
Her face was pale, her eyes green. The corners of her lips trembled like petals in the wind.
"Mizu," she said, and her voice sounded layered — human and something else, whispering beneath it. "You came back."
I couldn't answer.
"You shouldn't have run yesterday," she continued. "They get worried when someone runs."
"Who?" I whispered.
Her smile widened. "The roots."
Then she reached toward me. Her hand brushed my cheek — soft, cold. I felt something sticky on her skin. When I looked down, I saw it: a small white thread, thin as hair, stretching between her fingers and my face before it snapped.
"You're almost ready," she murmured. "Don't be scared. It's only the beginning."
I shoved her hand away and ran. Her laughter followed me — not cruel, not mocking, just… happy.
---
That night, I hid in the abandoned shrine at the edge of the forest. The walls were covered in moss, the air damp and heavy. I sat against the altar and tried to breathe, but my chest hurt. Every inhale felt like pulling something foreign into my lungs.
I touched my skin.
Something beneath it moved.
It was small — a faint twitch under my collarbone, like a muscle spasm. But it repeated. Slow. Rhythmic.
And when I pressed my hand harder, I felt it — the thin, fibrous texture of a root, winding just beneath the surface.
I wanted to scream. But I didn't.
Because from outside the shrine, I heard voices — dozens of them. The villagers. Aya. The clerk. The others. All whispering the same thing, softly, patiently, like a prayer.
> "She's almost ready. The garden will bloom again."
And then I heard another voice, closer — right outside the door.
> "Welcome home, Mizu."
It was my aunt's voice.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. The voice was too clear, too familiar — warm in that distant, maternal way my aunt used to speak when she still was herself.
> "Mizu," she said again. "You shouldn't hide. The garden's been waiting for you."
I pressed my back against the altar, my breath caught in my throat. Through the crack in the shrine door, I could see her shadow move — slow, deliberate.
Moonlight spilled through the window slits, lighting the thin veil of fog creeping along the floor. It wasn't natural fog. It shimmered faintly, like the air was full of pollen.
> "It hurt, didn't it?" the voice continued. "When you saw me disappear."
Her footsteps were soft, like something dragging rather than walking.
> "But I didn't die, Mizu. The garden doesn't let anything die."
The door creaked open an inch. A hand slipped through — pale, trembling, veins like threads of white. Dirt clung beneath her fingernails.
I didn't move.
When she pushed the door wider, I saw her face.
It was my aunt — and it wasn't.
Her skin had the texture of bark, faint lines spreading from her neck upward. Her hair was tangled with thin white roots, and her eyes… her eyes were completely green. Not glowing — just wrong, like two leaves reflecting too much light.
> "You ran away," she said softly. "But that's all right. You were scared. I was too, the first time."
"The first time?" I whispered.
She smiled. The corners of her mouth cracked slightly, and something dark seeped from them.
> "When I first heard them. The voices in the soil. The ones that told me the garden never ends."
She stepped closer. The air thickened; I could smell the rot, the sweetness, the decay all at once.
> "They said you would come back. That you were the seed I left behind."
My stomach turned. "What are you talking about?"
Her smile widened. "You've felt it, haven't you? Under your skin?"
I took a step back. "No."
> "Don't lie."
Her voice cracked like wood splintering. She raised her hand, and her fingers split open at the tips — not bleeding, but blooming. Thin white petals unfolded where her nails should've been.
> "It's already begun," she whispered. "They chose you."
I turned to run, but the floor beneath me pulsed — once, twice, like a living thing. Roots shot up from the ground, coiling around my ankles, holding me in place.
I fell hard, my hands scraping the wooden floor. The roots crawled up my legs, not tight enough to hurt — just enough to hold.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her head tilting slightly to the side.
> "It's better if you stop fighting," she said. "The garden takes care of its own."
I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. "You're not her."
For a moment, something flickered in her expression — sadness, maybe, or something close to it. Then it was gone.
> "You don't understand yet," she whispered. "The garden isn't evil, Mizu. It's what's left when everything else rots away."
Her hand reached for my face — and I saw it again. The roots under her skin pulsed faintly, like veins full of light.
> "Soon," she said softly, "you'll see the truth in their eyes. Just like I did."
And before I could react, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against mine.
The world went white.
---
I saw things — flashes, fragments, too fast to comprehend. A garden that stretched forever, full of faces instead of flowers. Eyes open in the soil. Mouths whispering prayers to something buried deeper still.
The sound of rain falling — not water, but seeds.
The feeling of roots growing inside me, weaving through my veins.
And somewhere far below it all, a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
---
When I woke, it was morning again. The shrine was empty. My aunt was gone. The air was quiet — too quiet.
I stood slowly, my legs weak. The roots that had held me were gone, leaving faint red marks around my ankles.
Outside, the fog had lifted. The village looked normal again — sunlight, birds, the smell of breakfast in the distance.
I walked down the path in a daze, half-expecting to see bodies, roots, anything. But everything was ordinary.
Until I passed a small mirror nailed to a wooden post near one of the houses.
I caught my reflection and froze.
There — just beneath the skin of my neck — a faint green line, pulsing slowly, like something growing toward the surface.
---
> "The garden in their eyes," I whispered. "And now… in mine."