Morning sunlight drifted through my window like nothing had happened.
The birds were singing. The air smelled of dew and tea. From the street below, I could hear the sound of someone sweeping — rhythmic, steady, almost peaceful.
If I didn't look too closely, I could almost believe that last night was a dream. That the shrine, the roots, my aunt's voice — all of it — had been some hallucination carved out of exhaustion.
But then the sunlight hit the small mirror beside my bed.
The reflection caught the edge of my neck.
And there it was.
A faint green line, pulsing.
Not constantly — just once every few seconds, as if breathing.
I touched it carefully, half expecting it to hurt. The skin was warm, smooth, and when I pressed too hard, something shifted beneath the surface — a soft movement, like a vein rolling away from my finger.
I jerked my hand back and pulled my collar higher.
---
The kitchen was quiet. My aunt's shoes still sat by the door. Her cup was still on the table. Everything looked exactly as it had before the garden swallowed her.
The house had reappeared sometime during the night. I didn't know how. I didn't want to.
I made tea because I didn't know what else to do. The sound of the kettle filled the silence, grounding me in something familiar. The water hissed and steamed, and I watched the ripples move in circles — small, trembling, endless.
When I took the first sip, it tasted faintly of soil.
I set the cup down and didn't drink again.
---
I went to school.
It felt absurd — the act of walking the same path, carrying the same bag, waving to the same people. But everyone was out again, smiling, alive, as if the village hadn't been devoured by fog the day before.
The clerk from the general store waved. His eyes were clear now — brown again. Human. He called out, "Good morning, Miss Mizu!"
His voice was warm. Normal.
For a moment, I almost waved back. But when I blinked, I could've sworn I saw something twitch behind his smile — the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, like something beneath the skin trying to remember how to move.
I looked away.
---
At school, Aya was waiting by the gate.
She looked fine. Completely fine. Her skin was smooth, her eyes brown, her smile bright. The petal that had fallen from her hair before was gone, as if it never existed.
"You're okay!" she said, grabbing my arm. "You vanished yesterday — everyone said you went home early."
I stared at her. "You… don't remember?"
She frowned. "Remember what?"
"Yesterday," I said softly. "You—"
But I stopped. Because she tilted her head in that same familiar way the villagers had — like something listening through her.
"Are you feeling sick?" she asked. "You look pale."
"I'm fine."
"Good. Come on, we'll be late."
She smiled again and tugged me toward the building.
Her hand was warm. Too warm.
---
The day passed in fragments. Words blurred together. My pencil moved across the page, but I couldn't read what I wrote. Every sound, every color felt muted.
When the teacher called my name, I didn't answer at first. I was too distracted by the faint vibration under my desk — subtle, steady.
When I looked down, a small crack had formed in the floorboards.
From it, a thin white root was pushing through, growing upward in silence.
I stared until the teacher's voice snapped me out of it. By the time I looked again, the crack was gone.
The floor was perfect.
---
After class, Aya and I walked home together. The sky was pale blue, the air full of that same sweet scent.
"Hey," she said suddenly, "you ever think about how quiet it's been lately?"
I glanced at her. "Quiet?"
She nodded. "Like… peaceful. I used to hate this place, but lately it feels nice. Calmer."
Her tone was dreamy, distant.
"Maybe people are just happier," she said, smiling to herself.
I wanted to tell her what I'd seen — what was still inside me — but the words wouldn't come out. Something inside me didn't want me to.
When we reached the crossroads, she turned toward her house and waved.
"See you tomorrow!"
Her voice lingered even after she was gone.
I stood there a long time, watching the petals that had fallen from the trees collect at my feet. They were white at first. Then, as the wind stirred, they darkened — faint green veins spreading through them like ink in water.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The house creaked softly, settling into itself. I sat on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Every now and then, I could hear something faint — a heartbeat that wasn't mine, pulsing through the walls.
And when I finally drifted close to sleep, a voice whispered from somewhere below the floorboards:
> "It's growing beautifully."
The words still echoed when I woke — if I even slept at all. The ceiling above me was a gray smear, and for a moment, I couldn't tell if it was morning or just another shade of night. My throat was dry, my palms damp.
I sat up slowly. The air was heavy, thick, like the room hadn't breathed in hours. My eyes drifted to the floorboards — the same ones that had whispered hours ago.
They looked normal now. Perfectly aligned. Smooth. But I could swear I still felt the faint pulse beneath them, like a living thing quietly pretending to be wood.
I pressed my ear to the floor.
Nothing.
And then, something softer than sound — a shiver, spreading outward, gentle and rhythmic.
I pulled back fast, clutching the blanket to my chest. The scent of soil was in the air again.
---
The morning was pale, colder than it should've been. My aunt's shoes were still by the door, though a thin layer of dust had begun to settle over them.
I avoided looking at the kitchen table. The tea cup was still there, half full, a faint green film forming at the surface.
I washed my face, dressed, and stepped outside.
The village looked almost beautiful in the early light. The trees were blooming again — not pink this time, but white, faintly glowing where the sunlight hit. The petals drifted across the road like snow.
But when I looked closer, they weren't petals.
They were too thin. Too soft.
Like skin.
I blinked hard, and they were petals again.
---
On the way to school, the path felt longer than usual. The houses leaned closer to the road, their windows dark, their curtains drawn. The sound of sweeping — the same steady rhythm from yesterday — followed me all the way down.
When I turned to look, there was no one there. Just a broom propped against the fence, moving slightly in the wind.
Aya was waiting by the gate again.
"Mizu!" she called, waving. "You look tired."
Her smile was too bright, too still.
"I didn't sleep well," I said.
"You should rest more," she said gently. "You'll wilt if you don't."
"Wilt?"
She blinked. "Sorry — I meant get sick. My mom always says that."
Her laugh was soft, but there was something hollow under it. Like a reed flute with one note missing.
---
In class, the teacher's voice felt far away. The chalk squeaked across the board, tracing out kanji I couldn't focus on.
My eyes drifted to the window.
Outside, the garden that surrounded the school grounds was blooming wildly. Vines climbed the walls, pressing their way between the window frames. They hadn't been there yesterday.
The roots had tiny white buds — flowers that pulsed faintly, in rhythm with something I didn't want to think about.
Aya followed my gaze.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" she whispered.
I didn't answer.
"They weren't there last week," she went on. "The principal says it's good luck — a sign of the soil healing."
The word healing sat wrong in my ears.
---
At lunch, the classroom emptied. I stayed behind, staring at the cracks forming along the walls.
One of them reached the corner of the blackboard, spidering down to the floor.
I reached out and touched it. The wall felt warm.
When I pulled my hand away, a faint smear of green marked my fingertips.
"Mizu?"
I turned. Aya was standing at the door, holding two boxes of lunch.
"I brought you one," she said. "You didn't bring any food today, right?"
Her tone was sweet — too sweet.
I looked at the box she held out. It was wrapped in a floral-patterned cloth. The scent rising from it was rich and strange, like boiled roots and honey.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Home cooking," she said. "My mom said you should try it."
Something inside me whispered: Don't.
"I'm not hungry," I said.
Aya's smile faltered just slightly — only for a second — before returning. "Oh… maybe next time, then."
She set the box on my desk anyway.
The fabric shifted slightly on its own as she walked away.
---
That evening, I tried to throw the lunchbox away.
The fabric clung to my fingers as I untied it. Inside was rice — at least, something that looked like rice. Pale grains, glossy under the light. But as I leaned closer, I saw they weren't grains at all.
Tiny white seeds, each with a faint green vein running through it.
They pulsed, almost imperceptibly.
I dropped the box. It hit the floor with a soft thud, and one of the seeds rolled out, landing near my foot.
A faint sound came from it — not a crack, not a pop, but a sigh.
I crushed it under my heel.
A thin smear of green bled onto the floorboards.
---
That night, the voice came back.
I wasn't sure if it was from the walls or the soil or somewhere inside me.
> "Don't be afraid, little one. It only hurts if you resist."
I pulled the blanket tighter. My heartbeat thudded against the pillow, too fast, too loud.
> "You've already taken root," it whispered. "You just don't know it yet."
The sound was both gentle and cruel — like someone humming a lullaby in the wrong key.
The air thickened. My window fogged, though it wasn't cold.
Through the haze, I could see the garden behind the house. The flowers there were taller now — far taller. Some reached the second floor, their stems coiling against the glass.
At the top of each stem, a white bloom faced me directly.
Their petals quivered in perfect rhythm with my breath.
---
The next morning, I woke to find dirt under my nails.
My sheets were damp. My pillow smelled of moss.
When I stepped outside, the ground was soft, freshly turned. A narrow trail of footprints led from my window to the garden.
I didn't remember walking there.
But the flowers swayed when I looked at them, as if greeting me.
And beneath their white petals, I could see it clearly — faint green veins, just like the ones under my skin.
The flowers watched me all morning.
Every time I turned my head, the stems seemed to shift — just slightly, like a slow wave following the wind. But there was no wind that day. The air was still, almost heavy enough to feel against my skin.
I wanted to cut them down, tear them out of the soil with my hands, but something in my chest twisted when I thought about it. The idea of hurting them made my stomach ache in a way that wasn't quite pain, just… wrong.
So instead, I walked past them. Pretended not to see.
The path to school felt longer again. Each step sunk deeper than it should have, the dirt damp and soft, as though it had been freshly watered.
By the time I reached the main road, my shoes were stained green.
---
Aya was waiting by the school gate, as always.
She smiled like nothing in the world could touch her — that same too-bright expression, the same eyes that didn't blink often enough.
"Morning, Mizu," she said, voice lilting.
"Morning," I managed.
"You've got dirt on your shoes," she said, tilting her head.
"I know."
She leaned closer, her gaze trailing downward, then back up to my face. "You shouldn't stand too close to the garden," she whispered. "You'll start to smell like it."
Her tone was playful, but something behind her smile twitched — a shadow passing beneath her skin.
I didn't answer.
---
The day passed like a dream I couldn't wake from. The hallways felt narrower. The light through the windows was tinted faintly green, though I couldn't tell if it was from the trees or something in the glass itself.
During class, I caught myself staring at the other students. They all looked normal. Talking, laughing, taking notes. But every so often, someone's hand would twitch in that unnatural way — fingers curling in patterns that looked almost like roots spreading.
When the teacher walked past, a faint scent followed her — the same soil-and-tea smell that haunted my aunt's kitchen.
I looked down at my notebook. My handwriting was strange again, uneven. The words had changed when I wasn't looking:
> "It only hurts if you resist."
I tore the page out and stuffed it into my bag.
---
At lunch, Aya didn't come over. She sat at her desk by the window, staring out toward the courtyard.
Following her gaze, I saw the flowers there too — the same pale blooms, taller than the fence, their heads turned toward the classroom like they were watching through the glass.
No one else seemed to notice.
After a few minutes, Aya began to hum under her breath. A tune I didn't recognize, soft and lilting, like something a mother would sing to calm a crying child.
She turned to me suddenly. "Do you want to come over today?"
Her voice was too calm. Too careful.
"Why?" I asked.
"Mom made something new," she said. "She wants you to try it."
I shook my head. "I have homework."
Her smile didn't fade. "You can bring it with you."
"I'll come some other time."
Aya's eyes lingered on me a second longer than they should have. Then she said, "Don't wait too long. Flowers don't last forever."
---
When the final bell rang, I left before anyone else. I didn't look back.
The road home felt unfamiliar, though I'd walked it dozens of times by now. The houses seemed to have moved slightly — doors that used to face the road now turned inward, as if trying to hide.
A faint whisper followed me from the ditches on either side. I couldn't make out the words at first, just the rhythm.
Then, clearer:
> "It's growing."
"It's almost ready."
"The bloom mustn't be delayed."
My pace quickened.
The whispers quieted when I reached my street, but I could feel them still, humming through the soles of my shoes — a slow, steady pulse that seemed to match my heartbeat.
---
The house was colder inside than outside.
I set my bag down and froze. The air smelled sweet — faintly floral, faintly rotten.
The cup on the table was gone. The dust around my aunt's shoes had been disturbed.
And on the kitchen counter, where there had been nothing that morning, sat a small clay pot filled with soil.
A single white sprout pushed through the surface.
I stepped closer. The soil was damp, fresh. I touched it — warm, as if alive.
There was a note beside it, written in my aunt's handwriting:
> "For you, Mizu. Keep it near sunlight."
My breath caught. The handwriting was unmistakable. But she'd been gone for days.
When I looked back at the pot, I swore the sprout had grown — taller, straighter.
---
That night, I didn't sleep again.
The whispering returned, not from beneath the floor this time but from inside the walls. Words threading together, indistinct but persistent.
I sat in the dark, watching the pot on my desk. The sprout trembled slightly, even though the window was closed.
At some point, I realized the whispering wasn't coming from the walls anymore.
It was coming from the plant.
> "You're doing well," it breathed.
"Soon, you'll understand."
I wanted to throw it out the window, but my hands wouldn't move. They trembled, yes, but they wouldn't obey me.
And then, for the briefest moment, I saw something move beneath my skin — a ripple, small but unmistakable, running from my wrist to my elbow.
---
I pressed my hand against the table to steady myself.
When I lifted it, I saw a faint green smear beneath my palm.
The same color as the veins under my skin.
The same as the sprout in the pot.
And for the first time, I realized the truth that had been whispering to me since the first day:
The garden wasn't outside anymore.
It was inside me.
I didn't move for a long time.
The room felt smaller somehow, the air too close. My heart thudded in my chest, each beat rippling faintly under my skin — and I couldn't tell if it was just my pulse, or something else responding to it.
The sprout on the desk leaned toward me. Just slightly. As if listening.
I turned away. My breath came in shallow bursts. I wanted to scream, to run, to dig through the walls and tear every root out of this house — but I knew what would happen if I tried.
It would hurt.
And not just me.
That thought didn't come from my own mind. I could feel it, soft and certain, like the echo of someone else's voice brushing against the inside of my skull.
> "Don't fight it."
I pressed my palms to my ears, but the voice was already beneath my hands, beneath my skin.
> "You'll only make it worse."
---
I left the room.
The hallway was darker than before, even though the light was still on. The bulb flickered, and with each blink, the shadows grew longer, stretching across the floor like slow-moving veins.
The smell of soil was everywhere now. It clung to my clothes, my hair, my throat.
When I reached the kitchen, the clay pot was there too.
I froze. I hadn't brought it with me.
But it sat neatly on the counter, sprout taller now, two pale leaves unfurling like hands in prayer.
A droplet of green liquid slid down its stem and landed on the tile.
When it touched the floor, the sound it made wasn't a drip — it was a heartbeat.
---
The walls pulsed once.
Then again.
The plates on the shelves rattled softly. The floor shifted under my feet, the wood softening as if turning to damp earth.
> "It's time," the voice murmured — not from the air, but from everywhere.
I stumbled backward, hitting the wall. My fingers found the doorknob — slick, wet.
When I turned it, something warm oozed between my fingers. I looked down. The metal was coated in sap.
The door creaked open, but the world outside wasn't the village.
It was the garden.
The same one from the night my aunt disappeared — vast, endless, blooming with white and green. The air shimmered with spores that caught the light like dust motes.
In the distance, I could see the shrine, its wood now overgrown and cracked. Vines crawled along its surface, pulsing faintly in rhythm with my heartbeat.
And standing beneath the torii gate —
— was my aunt.
---
She was smiling.
Her dress was torn and stained, but her face was calm, radiant even. White flowers bloomed along her arms and neck, sprouting gently from beneath her skin like jewelry.
"Mizu," she said, voice soft as wind through leaves. "You came back."
I couldn't move. "You—"
"Don't be afraid," she whispered. "It's only the beginning."
I shook my head. "You… died."
She tilted her head, like Aya always did. "No. I changed."
The petals on her shoulders quivered, releasing a faint mist into the air. The scent was sweet, dizzying.
"This is what they wanted for us," she said. "For all of us. To bloom. To belong."
Behind her, the ground shifted — slow, deliberate. Something massive stirred beneath the soil, unseen but undeniable. The earth breathed.
"I don't want this," I said.
She smiled again. "You already do."
---
The pulse in my neck flared, hard enough to make me stumble.
I touched the spot — the faint green line I'd hidden under my collar — and felt it moving. Expanding. Spreading.
It burned cold.
I tore at it, fingernails digging into skin, but the line only sank deeper, curling around my throat like a vine.
My aunt's voice grew distant, almost tender. "You can't fight what's meant to grow."
The flowers around us shuddered. Some of them began to open wider than they should — petals splitting, revealing not stamens but eyes. Hundreds of them, blinking wetly, all turning toward me.
Their pupils pulsed green.
The same shade as mine.
---
I fell to my knees. The soil beneath me was soft, warm, breathing. I dug my fingers into it and screamed, but no sound came out — only a rush of air and the faint taste of moss.
Something beneath the ground brushed against my hand. Smooth. Wet. Familiar.
A hand.
It squeezed once, gently, as if to reassure me.
And when I looked down, I saw that it was my own — reaching up from beneath the earth.
---
The world swayed.
For a heartbeat, everything went silent. The trees stopped moving. The air held its breath. Even the voice went quiet.
And in that moment, I saw it all: the village, the school, the people — each of them connected by thin green threads running beneath the soil, pulsing faintly, feeding into the same unseen root.
The garden wasn't just around the village.
It was the village.
And every person in it was just another stem, another bloom.
---
When I woke, I was in my bed again.
Morning sunlight drifted through the window. The birds were singing. The air smelled of dew and tea.
For a moment, I almost believed it had been a dream.
But then I turned my head.
The clay pot sat on the windowsill, full of white blossoms swaying gently in the light.
And reflected in the glass, I saw my neck — the green line now gone, replaced by a small white petal blooming softly just beneath my jaw.
It pulsed once.
And I smiled.