Morning bled through the curtains like diluted honey — thick, heavy, and too slow to touch anything. The air in my room still carried the scent of wet flowers. It wasn't the faint sweetness of the camellias that grew in the yard; it was heavier, almost spoiled. The kind of scent that lingers after something has started to rot but refuses to let go of its beauty.
I sat up slowly, sheets tangled around my legs. My body felt cold, though the sun had already risen. The first thing I did — before breathing, before even thinking — was touch my neck.
The petal was gone.
But the faint shape of it remained imprinted in my skin, like a burn or a memory. I rubbed the spot, half expecting it to crumble again between my fingers, but nothing came off.
For a moment, I thought about calling someone — anyone — but the idea of explaining this made my stomach twist. "There was a flower petal growing from my neck, but now it's gone." How do you say that out loud and still sound human?
Instead, I went to the sink. I splashed cold water on my face until my skin stung. When I looked up, my reflection looked back at me — but something in her eyes didn't align with mine. It wasn't that she moved differently; it was that she waited for me to move first.
I stepped back. She didn't.
Just a trick of sleep, I told myself. I hadn't been sleeping right anyway. I hadn't been eating much either.
The kitchen was silent except for the clock ticking like a heartbeat. The house felt emptier than usual — even though it had been just me for weeks now. Uncle's "trip" had stretched longer than he said it would, but I didn't mind. Solitude had always been easier to manage than company.
I made tea, but when I opened the cupboard, I froze.
Inside, a faint layer of something white clung to the wood. Thin, soft, and curled like—
Petals.
Tiny, translucent petals, as if they'd been growing there in secret.
I shut the door. Hard. The clatter echoed through the house like a scream.
"Not again," I muttered, though I didn't know what "again" meant. I hadn't seen this before. Not exactly. But something deep in me felt that I had — not here, not now, but somewhere.
The tea water boiled over. I didn't notice until it hissed against the stove.
By the time I sat down with the cup, the petals were already gone from the cupboard.
The tea tasted strange. Bitter, almost metallic.
I watched the faint steam rise and twist, and for a fleeting second, I could swear it formed the outline of a flower—one of those with long, curling stems that look more like veins than vines.
I didn't drink the rest.
The house had grown too quiet. No clock, no pipes, no creaking of the floorboards. Just silence—dense, suffocating silence. I tried to focus on anything normal: the sound of the kettle cooling, the hum of the refrigerator. But even those had gone still, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
That's when I heard it.
A faint scraping noise.
Soft at first, almost delicate, like nails brushing against wood. It came from under the floor.
I froze, teacup still in hand.
The sound continued—slow, patient, moving just beneath where I sat. Each scrape came closer, then stopped right below me.
I didn't move.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise. I waited. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Then—
Tap.
A single, soft knock.
It felt almost polite.
Something about it sent a pulse of cold through my spine. The cup slipped from my hand and shattered across the floor, spilling dark liquid over my feet. The smell of tea turned sharp and strange, like wet soil.
When I stepped back, I saw something seeping through the cracks in the wooden boards.
Thin white lines.
Not liquid—roots.
They crawled upward, splitting the wood as they moved, spreading toward my toes. I stumbled back, grabbed the nearest chair, and swung it down hard. The wood cracked, the roots snapped, and in a blink—they vanished. No holes, no residue, nothing.
Just me, standing in the kitchen, gasping like I'd been running for miles.
The only trace left was the faint smell of earth, deep and old, like something had been buried for too long.
---
I spent the next hour checking every corner of the house. The cupboards. The sink. Even the small storage room under the stairs. Nothing was there. Nothing but dust and the faintest outline of petals pressed into the walls, as if something had brushed against them.
I told myself it was exhaustion. That I was imagining it all.
But when I reached for my phone to distract myself—there was a message.
No number. Just a blank name.
It read:
> "Don't water it again."
My hands went numb.
I hadn't told anyone about the flower. Not the one that grew in the garden, not the petal on my neck, not any of it.
I tried to type back, but the message had already disappeared. The chat was empty, as if it had never existed.
The sun outside had already started to sink.
Time had passed, and I hadn't noticed.
I went to the window, hoping the sight of the garden might calm me down. But where the patch of soil had been — the one I swore was barren — there was something new.
A single flower had bloomed.
White, with edges faintly red.
It faced the house.
And I swear, it looked like it was smiling.
The flower stayed there.
Even as the sky darkened and the wind began to rise, it didn't sway. Its stem was impossibly still — too straight, too tense — like it was waiting for something.
I closed the curtains.
But long after I lay down, I could still feel it.
That quiet, patient presence just beyond the wall.
The night air pressed against the windowpanes, whispering through the cracks. I curled beneath my blanket and told myself it was just wind. Just the house breathing. Just imagination trying to fill silence.
Then I heard it again.
> Mizu…
A voice, faint as breath, carried through the boards.
Not from outside — from below.
I froze. My pulse raced.
> Mizu… come see how it's growing.
My throat tightened. I didn't move.
But the voice was gentle. Almost kind. Like my aunt's used to be when she read me stories at night.
I wanted to believe it wasn't real. That I'd finally lost my mind.
But then the bed shifted.
Something pressed up from underneath.
The wooden frame groaned. A soft crack split through the slats, and something pale began to rise through it — a root, trembling, slick with dew.
It coiled once, then brushed my ankle.
The touch was warm. Not cold, not damp — alive.
I jerked back, fell to the floor, and grabbed the lamp from my nightstand. The room was bathed in yellow light, harsh and thin. The moment the light touched it, the root recoiled, slipping back beneath the boards.
Silence again.
Only the sound of my breathing filled the room.
---
I didn't sleep. I sat against the wall, staring at the floor until the first hints of dawn stretched through the window. The garden outside looked peaceful, almost beautiful — the flower still standing tall, untouched by the storm that had passed during the night.
When I stepped outside, the air felt… different.
Thick. Heavy. Every breath tasted like rain and iron.
The flower was closer.
I blinked. That didn't make sense — I'd planted it at least three meters from the porch. But now, its petals brushed against the first step. Its stem bent slightly, leaning toward me.
At its base, something new had begun to sprout — small buds, pulsing faintly in rhythm with my heartbeat.
And the soil beneath it wasn't soil anymore.
It was skin.
Smooth, pale, almost human.
I stumbled back, bile rising in my throat.
But even then, I couldn't look away. Because as the light hit the petals, I saw faces in them — faint, translucent, like reflections in glass. One of them looked like Aya. Another… like my aunt.
Their eyes were open.
Their mouths moved in silence.
And then, all at once, I heard it again — the voice, soft and loving, blooming in my skull like a secret:
> You're becoming part of it, Mizu.
Don't be afraid.
This is how things live forever.
The petals shivered in the wind.
And somewhere beneath my skin, something pulsed back — gentle, eager, waiting to bloom.
The whisper didn't fade this time.
It followed me.
Every corner of the house hummed with that voice — faint, rhythmic, patient. The walls pulsed as if breathing, the floor creaked with each inhalation. Even the air itself felt… heavy, like the entire house had lungs and I was trapped inside them.
By the time the sun began to rise, I was no longer sure if it was morning at all.
The light that came through the window wasn't sunlight. It was green. Pale and wet, like it had passed through the veins of a leaf before reaching me. Dust motes floated through it — tiny, trembling specks that seemed to move with purpose, drifting closer whenever I exhaled.
Something was calling.
Not from outside.
From below.
The boards near the bed were warped now. I could see small splits running along the seams, thin and slick with a faint film of dew. The smell coming from there was the same as the garden — that mix of soil and sweetness, like flowers rotting in water.
I don't remember deciding to move. I just remember kneeling beside the bed, pressing my fingers against the gap between the planks.
It was warm.
I pushed harder — once, twice — until the board came loose with a soft snap. A puff of damp air brushed my face.
And below it — darkness.
A narrow crawl space ran beneath the house, low enough that I'd have to stoop to fit inside. The scent grew stronger there, almost intoxicating now, like something alive was breathing out.
I hesitated only a moment before grabbing the flashlight from my nightstand.
When the beam cut through the dark, the first thing I saw was the soil.
Except it wasn't soil anymore.
It was flesh.
Pale and stretched, threaded with green veins that pulsed faintly in the light. Between them, tiny white roots moved slowly, almost lazily — burrowing deeper into what looked like skin.
I wanted to scream. I didn't.
Because among those veins, half buried, something else was visible — a face.
My aunt's face.
Her eyes were closed. Her mouth slightly open, as if caught mid-breath. Flowers grew from her lips — small white blossoms swaying with each pulse beneath the skin.
For a long time, I just stared.
And then I realized something worse.
Her chest was rising.
Slowly. Gently. Breathing.
> "It's growing beautifully," the voice whispered again — but this time, it wasn't from below.
It was behind me.
I turned sharply, light shaking in my hand — and saw her.
Aya.
Standing in the crawl space's mouth, her hair damp with dew, her eyes soft, shining faintly green in the dark.
"Why did you open it?" she asked, her tone calm, curious. "It's not ready yet."
My voice broke. "Aya… what is this…?"
She tilted her head — the same motion I'd seen a hundred times, only slower now. More deliberate.
"It's the garden," she said, smiling faintly. "It takes care of everything. It keeps us connected."
I backed away, my hand still clutching the flashlight. "Connected? To what?"
She stepped closer. The roots shifted beneath her feet, reaching toward her like eager pets.
"To each other," she said softly. "To the soil. To the cycle."
The ground beneath me trembled. Something brushed my ankle — soft, almost tender. I shone the light down and saw dozens of tiny roots curling around my leg, threading through the fabric of my pants.
"Stop—!" I tried to tear free, but the moment I touched them, warmth flooded through me. My pulse slowed. My thoughts blurred.
Aya reached out, her expression almost pitying. "Don't fight it, Mizu. You've already been chosen. You were marked the moment you came here."
"The… mark…" I whispered, remembering the green line on my neck.
She nodded, kneeling beside me. "The garden doesn't forget its own."
The roots tightened.
Something bloomed beneath my skin — a subtle, stretching ache that spread from my chest outward. My fingers trembled. My vision swam.
"You'll see," Aya whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "It doesn't hurt forever. And when it's done, you'll never be alone again."
I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. My throat filled with the taste of earth and sweetness — and when I coughed, a small petal fell from my mouth, damp and green.
Aya smiled.
Outside, the morning bell rang from the distant schoolyard — soft, cheerful, ordinary.
But down here, under the floor, in the breathing dark, the garden bloomed.
And for the first time, I thought I understood what it meant when my aunt used to whisper,
> "No flowers ever die in this village."