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Off-key.

Barely there—but wrong enough to hold.

I followed it.

The air changed the moment my boots hit soft grass. Damp earth first. Cold. Then something softer beneath it. Faint. Green. Growing. Dahlia. Further out—something sharper. Bitter at the edges. Marigold. And beneath it all—sweet.

Too soft.

Lingering where it shouldn’t.

I stilled. That one didn’t belong to the garden.

None of it mattered. The hum didn’t. It dipped. Rose. Broke. Started again.

Closer now.

I slowed. Let the sound build the space around me. The flowers brushed against each other in the faint breeze—petals whispering, stems shifting. I traced it through the movement, through the breaks in the air. Did she go near the greenhouse? My mind raced.

No.

There she is.

Low.

Close.

I stepped forward. Silent.

She didn’t hear me. Or she did—and chose not to react.

I came up behind her. Close enough now to feel the warmth of her body through the cool air. Close enough that her scent cut through everything else.

She was crouched low among the flowers. Still.

The hum faltered. Stopped. Her body went rigid.

She knew.

She didn’t turn. Slowly—too slowly—she began to rise. I tracked the movement as she pressed her hand into the earth to steady herself. Fingers sinking into the soil as her weight shifted, uneven but controlled.

She didn’t rush it.

Didn’t stumble.

Didn’t look back.

Just… rose.

Holding herself there. Back to me. Waiting.

I let the silence stretch. One beat. Then another. Close enough now that if she moved, she’d feel it.

She didn’t.

“You broke the rule.”

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