The outer rim of the garden had always obeyed a quiet boundary—plants grew wild, yes, but they listened. They bent to the rhythm of Lyra's presence and Elliot's intention.
But here, just a short walk beyond the woven trellis gate, things were wrong.
Elliot crouched beside a patch of grass that was entirely flat—not trampled, but unnaturally compressed. As if it had surrendered willingly to something unseen.
Lyra knelt beside him, her fingertips brushing the soil.
"This isn't how the earth should feel," she whispered. "It's... hollow. Like it's pretending to be soil."
He dug into it with his knife. The dirt gave way too easily—no resistance, no layered texture. Beneath, the roots curled in patterns, looping in tight spirals instead of anchoring down.
"Nothing's taking hold," he muttered.
She nodded. "And the roots that try… they die."
Beyond the patch, stalks of tall blue-veined plants grew in a circle. Their leaves fluttered despite the still air, each one turning slowly to face Lyra when she moved.
She tensed.
"They're not from here."
Elliot narrowed his eyes. "From Stillfall?"
"No. Further. These are echo flora. Things that bloom where memory is strongest. They don't feed on sun or water, but on what used to be."
"What do they want from us?"
"They want to be us."
Her voice trembled as she said it.
A sudden gust kicked up dust around them, and in the swirl of debris, a shadow danced—vague and formless. Elliot instinctively raised an arm, but it passed through harmlessly. Still, the air left behind a whisper:
"We remember warmth. We remember shape."
Lyra stood abruptly. "We can't stay here."
They turned back toward the garden, but as they walked, the trees seemed closer than before, the trail subtly warped. Familiar markers had shifted—a crooked branch straightened, the sunflowers that once leaned left now arched right.
"Are we... being followed?" Elliot asked.
"No," Lyra replied, scanning the treetops. "We're being rewritten."
They broke into a run. The garden gate was barely visible when a shape slithered behind a tree—no more than a flicker, but Elliot saw it. A silhouette made of petals and shadow, watching.
Only when they crossed the threshold of the inner garden did the sensation fade.
Inside, the plants bowed as they always had. The strange, dreamlike pressure lifted.
But as Lyra sealed the gate behind them with a whisper of greenlight, she looked over her shoulder once.
"I don't think we can leave this place again," she murmured. "Not without being changed."