The wind grew quieter as they walked, not because it had stopped, but because something else had taken its place.
A distant hum.
Elliot and Lyra followed the resonance beyond the root circle, past clusters of crooked stones and spiraling fern beds. The forest opened to a clearing ringed by thin, tall trees that seemed to lean away from the center. There, standing half-swallowed by ivy and silver moss, was the structure.
The Tower.
It wasn't tall anymore. The upper half had long since crumbled, leaving a crooked stump of smooth stone laced with cracks. But even in ruin, it radiated presence. There were no windows—only one narrow slit along the upper wall—and a single, intact doorway framed by curved roots that reached like fingers around the entrance.
"I don't think this was made with hands," Lyra said softly. "At least… not only hands."
Elliot nodded. He stepped closer, fingers brushing along the base where bark met stone. "It grew and was carved at the same time."
He entered first. The inside was cold, dry, and lined with smooth walls that gently curved inward. There were no stairs, no floors above—just a hollow chamber with walls covered in faint etchings.
Not words. Not quite.
More like impressions: leaf veins, spiral lines, branching arcs that mirrored roots or lightning. And across the back wall, a single horizontal band of symbols repeated, carved deep enough that they still caught the light: "Listen, and it will remember."
Elliot touched it. The moment his palm met the groove, the air rang.
Not a loud sound. Not even a clear one. Just a faint echo that shimmered inside his mind like the memory of a voice from a childhood dream. He staggered back.
"What did you hear?" Lyra asked quickly, stepping beside him.
He pressed a hand to his temple. "A name, I think. Or part of one. It's like trying to remember the sound of sunlight."
Lyra reached toward the same line of symbols. The moment her fingers brushed the wall, her eyes widened. Her lips parted—but she didn't speak. Instead, tears welled in her eyes. She stepped back, shaking her head.
"It knew me," she said.
They stood in silence for a long moment, the tower's hum now barely noticeable under the weight of something older than language.
Then Elliot stepped back outside. The clearing felt different. The trees no longer leaned away—they stood upright now, straight as sentinels.
"I think the tower... unlocked something," he said. "In us. In this place."
Lyra followed him out, gaze distant. "There are more. I saw them. Towers like this, all connected underground by a root network. They aren't buildings. They're memory vessels."
"And the garden," Elliot added slowly, "might be one of the youngest."
She nodded. "But we're not just caretakers anymore. We're part of the system now. It sees us."
The wind returned. Leaves rustled—not randomly, but in waves, one side to the other, as if something invisible moved between them.
A whisper. Not words, but intent.
Something had been dormant.
Now, it was beginning to stir.