The night was cool and still, the garden breathing softly under a sky scattered with stars.
Inside the cabin, Elliot drifted into sleep almost the moment his head touched the pillow. His body ached pleasantly from the day's work, and his mind carried the peaceful hum of the living garden just outside.
But his dreams were anything but ordinary.
At first, there was only darkness—soft and heavy, like rich soil pressing against his skin. He floated within it, warm and weightless.
Then, slowly, a light began to pulse.
Not harsh or blinding, but a soft, steady rhythm, like the beating of a giant heart.
Elliot found himself standing beneath an enormous tree—not one he remembered planting. Its trunk was wide enough that it would have taken ten men to encircle it, and its bark shimmered faintly with a silver-green glow. Its roots spread endlessly in all directions, vanishing into the misty ground. From its massive branches hung not leaves, but clusters of glowing seeds, each one softly singing a note he could feel in his chest.
He stepped closer, drawn forward without fear.
As he touched the bark, a deep voice—not words, but something older than language—murmured in his mind.
You tend us.
You nourish us.
You awaken us.
The tree's roots shifted, revealing glimpses of the garden above: glowshrooms pulsing in unison, Thornlash vines stretching eagerly toward the stars, even the small crops leaning slightly toward the cabin in silent gratitude.
Elliot swallowed, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. "You're... the Heartroot," he whispered.
The tree's presence warmed, a low, resonant hum of acknowledgment.
We are many.
We are one.
We remember.
We dream with you.
Images flooded his mind:
Stillfall as it had once been—green and thriving before the ruin.
Gardens like his stretching across a once-living world.
A time when humans and living plants had worked together, protecting and healing the land.
And then... the Blight. A sickness spreading, twisting, consuming.
The garden around him dimmed in the memory. He saw broken vines, withered trees, fields turned to ash.
But the Heartroot pulsed again, stronger, pulling him back to the present.
Hope is seed.
You are soil.
Together, we grow.
Elliot's hands tightened against the bark. "How do I help you? How do we make this place strong enough to survive?"
A pause. Then the answer, woven deep into the pulse of the dream:
Nurture. Protect. Listen.
And when the time comes... awaken the lost seeds.
The vision shifted.
He saw strange seeds buried deep beneath ruins. Hidden treasures of forgotten power. Some lay sleeping under ancient trees, others cradled by crumbling temples or lost inside wrecked cities. They pulsed faintly, waiting.
Waiting for someone to find them.
Waiting for someone to believe in them again.
The dream-tree leaned closer, its vast branches whispering over him like a sigh of wind.
Lyra... is a seed too.
Part of the old song.
Do not let her wither.
Elliot jerked as a sudden flash of gold—Lyra's laughing eyes—cut through the dreamscape.
The Heartroot's warmth wrapped around him like a blessing.
Grow together.
Breathe together.
The garden is not the end.
It is the beginning.
Then the world began to unravel—petals drifting away, roots untangling—and Elliot felt himself pulled gently back to waking.
When he opened his eyes, dawn was just beginning to stain the sky with pale colors.
Beside him, Lyra slept curled up in a blanket near the hearth, a soft rise and fall to her breathing.
Outside, the garden shimmered faintly, whispering through the open window.
Elliot sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his chest where the dream still pulsed faintly inside him.
He didn't understand everything yet.
But he knew one thing with certainty:
They weren't just surviving anymore.
They were growing—together.
And the world, broken and tired as it was, might still have songs left to sing.