The roots formed a path.
Not just in the usual way roots broke through soil and stone, seeking water and space—no, these roots wove themselves deliberately, almost artfully, across the forest floor like threads of intention. Elliot spotted them as he parted a curtain of ferns beyond the east garden's outer line: thick, vine-like structures, partially buried, partially exposed, all of them pulsing faintly with a green-brown hue that looked too alive.
He crouched beside them and pressed his palm against the bark-like texture. It was warm.
"Something made this," he murmured.
Behind him, Lyra tilted her head, listening intently. "The ground is humming. Quiet… but it's there."
They had noticed subtle changes in the past few days: new patterns in the bark of old trees, moss growing in geometric spirals, and windless days where the leaves still rustled, as if from something breathing beneath. But this… this was different. The path beckoned.
"Let's follow it," Elliot said, not because it seemed wise, but because something deep in his bones whispered that it would matter.
They moved in silence, boots crunching softly on dead needles and old earth. The canopy overhead thickened as they walked, casting cool shadows on their skin. The deeper they went, the more deliberate the landscape felt—mushrooms growing only on the left side of trunks, stones arranged like old stepping markers, and trees bowed inward, forming a subtle arch.
"Someone passed here before," Lyra whispered.
"Or something wants us to pass again," Elliot replied.
Soon they reached a strange obstruction: a massive fallen tree, hollow and stripped of bark, with pottery shards embedded in its surface. Each shard bore faded symbols—flower-like shapes Elliot didn't recognize. One, particularly large, was etched with a swirling motif that resembled both a seed and an eye.
"I don't know these," Elliot said, brushing dirt from the pottery. "They're not from any archive or garden I've seen."
"I've dreamed of them," Lyra said softly. "Those flowers... they bloomed in circles around a crumbling tower. And the wind there... it whispered in a language I almost understood."
They exchanged a glance, unease curling like smoke in their chests. This path wasn't merely natural—it was ancient. Intentional. Remembered.
Beyond the log, the root-path descended into a gentle slope, leading into a hollow where the air felt heavier. Elliot felt it in his shoulders. Lyra felt it in her fingertips. The earth was no longer passive beneath them. It responded—each step brought a low, vibrating pulse, like walking across the belly of some enormous creature in deep sleep.
Lyra knelt and pressed both hands to the soil. She closed her eyes. "This is memory," she said after a long moment. "We're walking on something's memory. Not human… not wild. Older."
They continued until they reached a circular depression. Stones formed a broken ring, swallowed by moss and laced with root-threads. In the center lay a flat piece of stone, carved faintly with compass-like lines. Only the northeast point shimmered slightly, pulsing with greenish light. Beneath it, a phrase had been chiseled in an ancient script. It read:
"Where roots touch sky, we left the first breath."
Elliot scribbled it down in his notebook, brow furrowed. "This isn't a path. It's a trace."
"A trace of what?" Lyra asked.
"Of them," he said. "Whoever built the gardens before us. Or… before the Fall."
Lyra sat beside the ring, placing her fingers on the carved center. Instantly, the grass shivered. A faint note hummed in the air—high-pitched, thin as thread. Almost like a voice lost in time.
"I think it remembers us too," she whispered.
Elliot didn't answer. Around them, the forest felt suddenly alert. Watchful.
The roots had led them here not to discover, but to remember.
And the land, long silent, had just begun to speak again.