I don't remember how I got out.
There's a blur — the feeling of something cold gripping my wrist, the crack of wood splintering under my hands, and then air. Wet air. Rainlight. The smell of mud and iron.
When I came to, I was outside. Lying face-down in the garden. The grass was slick beneath me, soaked through with dew, or maybe blood. My fingers were covered in it — dark streaks where I'd clawed at the earth.
The house stood behind me, quiet again. No movement, no sound. The door was closed, the windows clean, as if nothing had ever lived inside.
The only trace of what I'd seen was the flower.
It still stood near the porch, taller now, petals half-open. And in the middle of the bloom — almost hidden beneath translucent folds — was something glistening.
A human eye.
It blinked once, slow and lazy, as if recognizing me. Then the petals folded shut.
I scrambled to my feet, my breath ragged. The pulse in my neck throbbed in answer — that same green rhythm, faster now, syncing with the thing buried in the soil.
I wanted to run. Anywhere. Away from the house, the garden, the voice that still echoed behind my ribs.
But the path down from the hill was empty.
The village slept under a fog that hadn't been there a moment ago — a pale film rolling through the trees like breath exhaled from the earth itself.
---
I walked.
Or maybe I wandered.
Each step felt heavier than the last, like gravity had thickened. The familiar road to the school stretched longer than usual, turning at angles I didn't remember. The telephone poles leaned, their wires humming faintly with a pulse I could feel in my teeth.
When the fog lifted enough for me to see the main street, everything looked… fine. Too fine.
The bakery's sign swung gently in the wind. The same old man swept the same stretch of pavement. His motions were slow, deliberate — the rhythm almost ritualistic.
"Good morning, Miss Mizu," he said without turning.
His voice was pleasant. Normal. But when I passed behind him, I saw that his neck was split open along one side — a fine, green seam stitched from ear to collar.
It pulsed.
I bit down on my tongue hard enough to taste iron. Kept walking. Didn't look back.
---
By the time I reached the school gate, the world had tilted toward something wrong.
The building stood exactly as it always had, but the colors were muted — like old photographs left in the rain. The grass looked grey. The sky was a dull bruise. Even the laughter of students drifting from the yard sounded hollow, stretched.
Aya was there again.
Of course she was.
She waved like always, smiling too wide. "You look tired," she said.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My voice felt buried somewhere deep.
She tilted her head. That same motion again. "You shouldn't have gone under the house," she whispered softly, almost kindly. "It's better when you don't know."
"Better for who?" I managed.
Her smile faltered for just a second. Long enough for something behind her eyes to move — a flicker, green and wet.
Then she laughed, light and airy. "You always ask the wrong questions."
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, and for the briefest moment, I saw it — a thin white root curling from behind her ear, disappearing into her hairline.
My stomach turned.
---
The bell rang.
The students drifted inside like clockwork.
I followed, because pretending felt safer than standing still.
Inside, everything smelled of chalk and damp wood. The classroom was full — everyone chatting, shuffling papers, laughing. Normal. But when I looked closer, I realized half of them weren't blinking. They were just… sitting there, faces tilted toward the light, mouths slightly open, breathing in unison.
The teacher walked in a few moments later.
His suit was pressed. His smile polite. His skin slightly translucent under the fluorescent light.
"Good morning, class," he said.
And when he turned to write on the board, a faint green line pulsed at the base of his skull, tracing the shape of a stem.
---
Aya nudged me.
Her notebook was open.
In neat handwriting, she'd written a single sentence in the middle of the page:
> It's easier if you stop fighting it.
I looked at her, but she didn't meet my eyes. She just smiled faintly, pen tapping the desk in rhythm with my heartbeat.
The ticking of the clock grew louder.
Not gradually — suddenly. Like someone had taken the sound and pressed it directly against my skull.
Each second hit like a nail.
Each breath of the class — synchronized, shallow, steady — filled the spaces between the ticks.
I tried to focus on the board, on the meaningless rows of kanji scrawled there, but they wouldn't stay still.
The letters trembled, melted into the shape of roots spreading down the blackboard, twisting together into words that didn't exist.
> GROW. BIND. FEED.
The chalk snapped in the teacher's hand. He didn't flinch. Just kept writing with the stub, each movement slower, heavier. The scraping noise grew softer until it turned into something wet.
I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again — his fingers were bleeding.
Green.
The class didn't react. No one even looked up.
Aya sat perfectly straight beside me, eyes forward, smiling faintly — the same smile I'd seen under the house. The roots behind her ear now pulsed visibly, glowing faintly beneath her skin like veins filled with light.
I couldn't breathe.
The air in the room was heavy, sweet, wrong. Every inhale coated my throat like nectar. I pressed my hand to my neck — the green line there throbbed in rhythm, answering whatever the teacher was writing.
My pulse matched the sound of the chalk.
Grow. Bind. Feed.
I stood up.
No one looked. No one stopped me.
The world tilted slightly as I stepped into the hallway — the light flickering overhead, buzzing like flies. For a moment, I leaned against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cold plaster, trying to force myself to think.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
But my reflection in the glass door beside me blinked after I did.
And it smiled.
---
I don't remember deciding to move, but I was running — shoes slamming against the floor, the echo of each step following me like a second heartbeat.
The school halls were empty now. Completely silent except for the soft hum beneath the floorboards. That same pulse. The same rhythm.
It followed me down the stairs.
Down another hallway.
Until I reached the entrance.
The door was locked.
Through the glass, the outside looked normal — sunlight, trees, the same narrow street. But it was flat, like a photograph taped over something much deeper. And when I pressed my hand against the glass, the reflection that touched back wasn't mine anymore.
It was my aunt's.
Her eyes wide. Mouth open in a frozen scream.
Then she was gone.
---
"Mizu."
The voice came from behind me.
I turned slowly.
Aya stood halfway down the hall.
Barefoot now. Her feet were damp — leaving small, perfect prints along the tile. Her hair stuck to her face, dripping something green and viscous onto her uniform.
"You shouldn't run," she said gently.
Her voice trembled slightly, almost sad. "It makes it hurt more."
"I saw what's under the house," I said, the words spilling before I could stop them. "You— you killed her. You're all—"
Aya tilted her head. "Killed?"
Then she smiled again.
"No. We just made her bloom."
I backed away until my shoulders hit the glass door.
Aya's expression softened. "It's not so bad," she whispered, stepping closer. "When it's your turn, you'll understand. It's peaceful when you stop fighting."
Something cracked beneath her skin. A vein pulsed along her neck, split open, and from it sprouted a small white bud — unfolding slowly like a new petal.
"Stop—"
She reached for me, and the air shifted. A faint hum rose from the floor — the same resonance I'd felt in my bones the night before. It grew louder, filling the hall, vibrating through the walls until the ceiling lights began to flicker in time with the pulse.
Aya's voice merged with the hum:
> "Everything belongs to the garden, Mizu."
And then — silence.
---
The next thing I remember is light.
White, blinding, sterile.
I was lying on the nurse's cot, a cool compress over my forehead.
Aya was sitting beside me, legs crossed, smiling faintly.
"See? You just fainted," she said. "You've been pushing yourself too hard."
Her tone was soft again. Sweet. Normal.
But on the desk beside her — sitting in a glass of water — was a flower. White petals. Green stem.
And when I looked closer, I realized it was still wet with soil.
Soil that smelled like home.
The nurse's office was quiet.
Too quiet.
The tick of the wall clock was gone.
Even the sound of students outside — footsteps, laughter, wind — had vanished.
Only the faint hum remained. Low, steady, and wet, like blood coursing through the veins of the building.
Aya sat perfectly still beside the bed, watching me.
She hadn't blinked since I opened my eyes.
"You were out for a while," she said softly. "I thought you'd stopped breathing."
My throat was dry. My tongue felt heavy, swollen with the taste of metal. "How long?"
"Just a few minutes."
She tilted her head. "You're still trembling."
"I'm fine."
But I wasn't.
Because when I tried to sit up, my left hand slipped on the sheet — and when I looked down, I saw that my palm was slick with something green. A faint smear glistened against the white fabric.
I wiped it away quickly, heart racing, but my skin still tingled.
And the faint line that ran from my wrist to my elbow — the one I hadn't noticed before — pulsed once, then stilled.
Aya noticed. Of course she did.
Her eyes followed the movement. Her lips parted slightly in a soundless breath.
"It's starting," she whispered.
I froze. "What is?"
She smiled, almost tenderly. "The connection. It takes a while to settle in, but it's always beautiful when it begins."
The words slid through me like a fever. I wanted to get up, to scream, to run — but when I tried to stand, the room swayed. The hum deepened, vibrating under the floorboards.
"Stop talking," I said, voice shaking. "You're lying."
Aya blinked, slow and patient. "You still think this is something outside of you, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
Her gaze softened, pitying. "You've been marked since the day you arrived. The garden just reminded you."
I pressed my hand to my neck. The pulse there answered instantly — sharp, hot, rhythmic.
Aya's smile widened slightly. "See? It knows you."
---
When she left the room, the silence returned — thick enough to suffocate.
I lay there for a while, trying to steady my breathing.
The flower on the desk swayed gently, though there was no wind. Its petals glistened in the half-light. For a moment, I thought I saw them open wider — as if turning toward me.
My reflection in the window behind it looked pale, gaunt. My eyes had dark circles beneath them, and my skin seemed… stretched.
No. Not stretched — thinner.
When I leaned closer, I could see faint green threads beneath the surface. They pulsed faintly, like veins carrying light instead of blood.
The sight made my stomach twist. I stumbled to the small sink in the corner and turned the tap on. Water hissed.
Cold. Normal.
I splashed my face, rubbed hard, hoping it would fade. But when I looked up again, the veins were still there.
And worse — they were spreading.
Across my jaw. Down my neck.
Slow, deliberate lines tracing the same shape as the roots I'd seen in the garden.
The hum under the floor grew louder.
I grabbed the nearest object — the mirror — and hurled it at the wall.
Glass shattered. For a second, the sound broke the rhythm. The world went silent again.
Then the pieces began to move.
Tiny shards of glass quivered on the floor, sliding toward each other. The reflection inside them shifted, forming shapes — white petals, green stems, eyes blinking from within.
A voice whispered, soft as breath:
> "Don't fight it, Mizu. The garden remembers kindness."
I stumbled backward, heart slamming against my ribs. My hand brushed the flower on the desk. Its stem bent, curling toward my fingers, almost like it was reaching for me.
I snatched my hand away — but a single petal stuck to my skin.
It didn't fall.
It melted — seeping into the surface of my palm, leaving behind a faint green stain that began to spread.
---
I ran.
Out of the nurse's office. Down the hall. Through the side door that should've been locked.
The outside air hit me like a wall — humid, thick, vibrating with that same low hum. The sky had darkened, though the clock had said it was still morning.
Everywhere I looked, the color had drained away.
The ground, the buildings, even the trees had taken on that pale tone of rot — except for the green. The green was alive. Pulsing.
The same shade that now crawled beneath my skin.
I fell to my knees near the edge of the schoolyard. The grass there was long, tangled — moving slightly even though there was no breeze. When I touched it, it felt warm.
Alive.
And beneath the blades, the soil wasn't black.
It was the same pale flesh I'd seen beneath the house.
My breath hitched. I stood too fast and nearly fell again.
In the distance, across the field, I saw movement — a shape standing just beyond the fog.
Not Aya. Not my aunt.
Something taller.
Human-shaped, but too long in the limbs.
Its skin shimmered faintly green, as if the veins were on the outside.
And in its chest — blooming from where a heart should've been — was a flower.
White, wide, and still dripping.
The figure didn't move at first.
It simply stood there — tall, thin, with a faint, pulsing glow beneath its translucent skin. The fog around it rippled, bending slightly inward, as if drawn to its presence.
I couldn't move. My body locked. The hum under the ground grew louder until it blended with the beating of my heart.
The figure tilted its head. And in that small motion, I recognized something painfully human.
Curiosity.
It took one step forward.
The earth shifted with it.
The grass bowed. The fog split down the middle like curtains parting in slow motion. And for a fleeting moment, I saw its face.
It was mine.
But not quite.
The eyes were hollow, glowing green, and the skin — fragile, almost transparent — showed roots beneath the surface. Roots that pulsed like veins.
It smiled.
A faint, uneven curl of lips that shouldn't have existed on that face.
> "You followed the path," it said, in my own voice — distorted, echoing from inside my skull rather than from the air.
"You were always meant to."
"I'm not you," I whispered. "You're not real."
> "Not yet."
It stepped closer. The ground trembled with each movement, like the soil itself was breathing.
I took a step back. The hum rose, sharper, faster — almost musical.
"You're… the thing from the garden," I said.
It tilted its head again, and the flower blooming from its chest fluttered once, as if in response.
> "The garden was never separate. It was your beginning."
My throat tightened. "What are you talking about?"
> "You are the seed."
The words struck deep, resonating through my ribs.
Behind the figure, the fog stirred again — shifting into the shapes of roots. They stretched across the ground, connecting everything.
The trees.
The buildings.
Even the air.
And all of them led back to me.
I fell backward, pressing my hands into the dirt. But instead of cold soil, I felt warmth — skin-like, pulsing softly beneath my palms.
I jerked away, shaking, and saw faint lines glowing in the ground where my hands had touched — the same green as the veins beneath my own skin.
The figure raised its hand.
Roots burst from the soil, reaching toward me. Not to strangle — but to connect.
> "You don't understand yet," it said.
"This place isn't dying. It's waking."
---
I scrambled to my feet, stumbling toward the school building. But the world was warping around me. The walls bent, windows turned to glassy eyes, and the air vibrated with whispers.
Aya's voice floated from somewhere unseen:
> "Mizu, you can't run from what you are."
I turned sharply. She stood near the doorway, calm, smiling — her nurse's uniform stained faintly green.
"You knew," I said. "You knew this would happen."
Aya's eyes glowed faintly. "Of course. You're the last one the garden needed."
"The last… what?"
"The last root."
She stepped closer, barefoot now, the floor blooming beneath each step — tiny white flowers sprouting from where she touched.
"The others refused. They tried to cut themselves away. You, though… you always listened. Even when you said you hated it, you heard it."
The sound around us grew louder — not just the hum now, but a low chorus of voices, like a hundred people whispering at once. I covered my ears, but it didn't help. The voices were inside my head.
Aya reached out and touched my cheek, gently. "You can end this, Mizu. Or you can let it finish what it started."
"What happens if I end it?"
Her smile softened. "Then the garden sleeps again."
"And if I don't?"
Aya's hand slid down to my wrist — right where the green line pulsed. "Then it grows."
---
The ground split open behind her.
Roots surged upward, bursting through the tile and wrapping around the walls, the ceiling, everything. The school groaned like a living thing. Windows shattered outward, spilling fog into the rooms.
Aya didn't flinch. She just watched me — patient, almost proud.
"You feel it, don't you?" she whispered.
And I did.
Something deep inside me thrummed, answering the rhythm of the earth. The hum wasn't just sound anymore — it was heartbeat, it was breath. It was mine.
I stumbled backward, but the roots followed. They weren't attacking; they were calling.
> "Seed of the Green Vein," the voices whispered. "Wake the heart."
Aya stepped aside. "Go on. It's waiting."
---
The world beyond the hallway was gone — just fog and pulsing veins of green light stretching endlessly.
At the center of it all, I saw the figure again — the version of myself with the flower heart.
It reached out its hand.
And I understood, then.
This wasn't about life or death.
It was about memory.
The garden had always been there, feeding on what people forgot — their decay, their regret, their roots.
And I had carried its last seed inside me since the beginning.
I reached forward.
The moment our hands touched, the world broke.
Light erupted — white, then green, then nothing.
Every whisper stopped.
Every hum ceased.
And for the first time since arriving in this place, there was silence.
Real silence.
---
When I woke, it was morning.
The nurse's office smelled like disinfectant again. No hum. No fog. No roots.
Aya was gone.
Outside the window, the garden looked normal. The grass swayed gently in the wind.
But at the center, where the old tree once stood, there was a single new sprout.
Tiny. Green.
Pulsing softly.
I looked down at my hand. The veins were normal again. My skin, clean.
But when I held my breath — just long enough — I could still hear it.
The faintest hum.