I don’t sigh. I don’t look up. I just shift the bucket on my hip and tip it slowly, letting the water fall in a steady stream at the base of the plant. The scent rises immediately—sharp and earthy, thick with minerals and rot—and for a moment it almost feels like something honest.
“Easy,” I murmur, more to myself than the plant, pressing the soil inward with the heel of my palm. “You’ll take it if you’re patient.”
The water sinks, inch by inch, darkening the ground in uneven patches. I watch the way it disappears, the way the roots drink greedily, and force my hands to keep moving—adjust, smooth, shift, repeat.
Routine.
That’s what keeps you alive.
But the rhythm is off.
It’s subtle, almost nothing, but it hums under my skin like a thread pulled too tight. The air feels heavier today, thick with heat and something metallic that lingers at the back of my tongue. Even the garden sounds wrong—the rustle of leaves too sharp, the scrape of tools too loud, voices carrying farther than they should.
I adjust my scarf, dragging it tighter across my hairline, tucking loose strands back into place with fingers still damp from the soil.
Invisible.
That’s the rule.
That’s always been the rule.
“Careful,” Fenrix drawls from somewhere behind me. “You keep whispering sweet things like that, the plants might start expecting it.”
I don’t turn. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“They’ll be disappointed,” I say, keeping my voice even as I reach for the next plant. “I don’t repeat myself.”
He snorts, boots scuffing against stone as he steps closer. I hear the shift in his weight before I see him in my peripheral vision—too close, leaning just enough to make it feel deliberate.
“You used to talk less,” he says.
I press my fingers into the soil again, deeper this time, grounding myself in the feel of it.
“I used to have less to say.”
“Mm.”
The sound stretches, thoughtful in a way that makes something in my shoulders tighten.
“Before,” he adds.
There it is.
I tilt the bucket, letting the water spill in a slow arc.
“Before what?” I ask.
There’s a pause, long enough that I know he’s watching me instead of the plants.
“Before you got interesting.”
My hand stills.
Just for a breath.
The water overflows slightly, spilling past the roots and pooling along the edge of the row. I correct it immediately, dragging my fingers through the dirt to redirect the flow, smoothing it back into place like it never happened.
Nothing happened.
