Dawn bled slow and sickly through the canopy, painting the forest floor with streaks of rust and ember. Rafi woke to the braid girl's breath on his neck — soft, steady. For a heartbeat he thought maybe, just maybe, they'd beaten the hush back for good.
Then he smelled it: the char of rot, the sweetness of a bloom turned rancid. He opened his eyes. A single spore floated above her lips, shimmering like dusk caught in amber. It pulsed once, twice — and sank into her mouth.
"Lale…" he whispered her real name — the only thing the hush never stole from her. But her eyes flicked open, black as rootwater. She smiled with too many teeth.
"You should have slept, Rafi," she cooed, voice syrupy and slow. "Now you'll feed it again. Just like you always do."
He rolled away, but she was on him — knees pinning his chest, fingers driving into his throat. Her braid uncoiled like a snake, roots sprouting from its end to dig into the soil and anchor her down.
The hush inside her pulsed bright as wildfire. Her skin bloomed with bark fissures, her veins mapled red and gold. She leaned close until her forehead pressed to his. He felt her breath on his lips — warm, soft, infected.
"Sleep. Be soil. Be quiet."
He gagged under her weight, clawing at her arms. Somewhere behind her human face, he glimpsed the hush's will: an ancient hunger. No mother's lullaby now — just the command to break him open, feed the roots, bloom him anew.
A tremor rattled the grove. Branches clattered overhead like dry bones. His hand found the sharp stone at his hip — the same stone that once carved prayers into the heartbark shrine.
Forgive me, he thought — and brought it down hard across her temple.
She screamed — a raw, ragged shriek that splintered into three voices at once: hers, the hush's, and something small and innocent beneath it all. The roots recoiled. Her braid hissed and blackened where it touched his skin.
Rafi shoved her off. She writhed on the forest floor, bark cracking across her arms, splinters falling like rain. He crawled to her, pressing his palm to her cheek.
"Fight it, Lale. Please. You're more than its mouth. You're more than dirt and roots."
Her eyes fluttered. For a heartbeat he saw her again — the girl who once offered him berries by the ash tree, who taught him how to run without leaving tracks.
"Rafi… run…" she rasped.
"No." He gathered her trembling body to his chest. Above them the hush groaned, a thousand hidden mouths grumbling from the deepest soil.
He pressed his lips to her ear. "You gave me fire once. Let me give it back."
He pulled the flint from his pocket — the one they'd kept since the first burn. Sparks danced against the roots that coiled from her spine. A hiss. A sizzle. Her scream turned to a moan — then to silence.
The hush shuddered. Leaves rained down. Somewhere deep in its belly, the old song changed key — not a lullaby now, but a roar of pain.
Rafi cradled Lale as the last spore shriveled in the flame's kiss. When he looked down, her eyes were her own again — soft brown, wet with tears.
"I'm here," he breathed. "I'm here. No hush. Just us."
But even as she clung to him, he felt it: the hush had learned. Fire alone would not kill it this time. It needed more.
Roots needed burning. From the inside out.