One buzzes past my ear. Fat. Fuzzy. The sound of its wings unnaturally loud in the quiet evening.
I swat at it absently. Early for bees. Especially bumblebees.
Another drifts by. Then another.
My brow furrows. This is strange. Wrong.
More appear. Their movements lazy at first. Aimless. But as I walk, they seem to multiply. Little black bodies suspended in the cooling air. Their collective hum grows louder. More insistent.
The sound fills my ears. Drowns out everything else.
I stop. Stare at the growing swarm.
This isn't normal. There are too many. Far too many for this time of evening. This time of year.
They circle. Hover. Their pattern seems deliberate.
A cluster lands on a nearby bush. I blink, certain my eyes are playing tricks. But no—they're arranging themselves. Forming a shape.
An arrow.
Pointing ahead.
I freeze. Pulse hammering against my ribs.
"I'm losing my mind."
The stress has finally broken me. I'm hallucinating. Has to be.
The bees lift off. Swirl in the air. Reform.
Another arrow. Hovering. Impossibly precise.
Blood pounds in my ears. Adrenaline spiking.
"Ms. Faulks?" Donovan's voice sounds distant despite his proximity. "Is something wrong?"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "Just... stretching my legs."
I can't look away from the bees. From the impossible thing happening right in front of me.
They move again. Leading me deeper into the gardens. Away from the house. Away from Donovan's sight line.
I follow. Can't help it. Drawn forward like a sleepwalker.
The gravel crunches under my feet. Each step feels both terrifying and inevitable. The hedges grow taller. The path narrows. Shadows deepen as we move into more secluded areas.
Donovan follows, but he's falling behind. The winding paths and tall hedges break his sight line.
The bees lead me to a hidden alcove. Tucked away. Private. The air here feels different—charged, electric. Like right before lightning strikes.
Donovan stops at the entrance. Far enough to give me space. Close enough to intervene if needed. He pulls out his phone. Checks something. Distracted for precious seconds.
The bees hover near wildflowers. Their wings blur with movement.
Then—impossibly—they arrange themselves into letters.
U C us?
