It began with missing sprouts.
One by one, seedlings vanished from the northeastern patch—roots torn cleanly, soil brushed over as if by a careful hand. Elliot assumed it was animals at first. Small ones. He set traps. Nothing triggered them. No fur, no footprints.
Then the carved markers started moving.
One morning, a sign labeled "Cressleaf – Do Not Touch" had been flipped upside down and wedged between two stones twenty feet away. Another time, a line of pebbles arranged to mark experimental fertilizer zones was rearranged into a spiral pattern—mathematically precise.
And the final straw: a tiny rake made of bone and vine, handcrafted by Lyra, found tucked neatly under her pillow. Clean.
"I know tricks," Lyra said, standing just inside the perimeter garden wall. "This isn't mischief. This is... observation."
Elliot frowned. "By what?"
They got their answer the next night.
The moon was high, full and dappled with cloudlight. Elliot had dozed beside a pile of drying moss when a faint rustling stirred him awake. Not the angry rustle of a beast, nor the slither of a creeping root. It was precise. Deliberate.
He rose quietly.
Beyond the mushroom grove, near the river-facing slope, he saw them.
Three creatures—no taller than his knee, covered in short, bark-like fur with leafy cloaks wrapped around their shoulders. Their heads were round and too smooth, but their eyes glinted like polished amber. Not reflective, but aware. One of them held a stalk of lightspore grass like a pen, scratching something into the dirt.
A diagram.
When Elliot stepped forward, one of them froze. Another flicked its hand—three fingers only—and the diagram was instantly brushed away. Then they scattered—not in a panic, but a coordinated retreat. One climbed a tree and vanished into its hollows. Another ducked under the root wall. The third turned and bowed before retreating silently into the shadows.
Lyra appeared beside him moments later, summoned by the silence. Her gaze followed the traces they left behind—none of them broken or careless.
"They're not wild," she said quietly. "They're studying us."
"Or the plants," Elliot added.
"No." Her expression darkened. "They're studying the way we care for them."
They followed the trail the creatures had left, careful not to disturb anything. Beneath a tangle of ivy, Elliot found a woven satchel—crudely made, but not from any material native to this part of the garden. Inside were scraps of mushrooms dried flat like paper. On one of them was a sketch:
Two figures standing under a tree.
One looked like Elliot.
The other… like Lyra, with vines coming from her back.