That night, the wind over the garden changed. It whistled like before—but with an edge, like it was mimicking something it didn't fully understand.
Elliot stirred from his bed of woven reed and moss when the call came.
"Elliot?"
Lyra's voice.
But not.
It was her tone, her cadence—but it echoed strangely, and when he stepped outside, she wasn't there.
He scanned the clearing. Moonlight cast shadows through the tall plants, and somewhere near the water barrels, he heard it again.
"Elliot."
This time softer, as if said with a mouth that didn't quite know how.
He reached for the small blade tucked into his belt. "If this is a joke," he whispered, "it's not funny."
The garden rustled in response—too uniformly.
Plants didn't move like that unless told to.
Then something stepped into the moonlight.
It looked like Lyra at first. Same build, same long braid, even the same odd shimmer beneath her skin. But her eyes were pitch black, and when she smiled, the expression was frozen—like someone copying a memory of a smile rather than creating one.
"Why are you afraid?" it said.
The voice overlapped three times—like multiple recordings layered imperfectly.
Elliot took a step back. "You're not her."
"No," the thing admitted. "But I remember how it feels to be her. And I want to understand more."
From the shadows, vines slid forward—not aggressive, but seeking. Curious.
Elliot raised his blade.
"No closer."
The mimic stopped. "You fear what listens back. But it is your fault, gardener. You walked where memory sleeps. We woke because you stepped wrong."
The words meant little. But Elliot felt their weight, heavy and pressing in his skull.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
"She sleeps. And dreams. And in her dreams, we learned... you."
Then it tilted its head. "You smell like patience and old promises. Perhaps that is why she keeps you close."
Before Elliot could respond, the thing—no, the echo—flickered. Its form collapsed inward, dispersing into black spores that rode the wind.
Moments later, Lyra stumbled out of the dense brush on the far end of the garden, breathless and confused.
"I—Elliot?" Her voice was her own again.
He rushed to her, checking her arms, her eyes, her pulse.
"I was walking," she said, "in a dream, but... not asleep."
She looked at the sky.
"I heard myself calling you. But I didn't speak."
Elliot exhaled slowly.
Something from the cracked lands had followed them back.
And now, it was learning.