The Last Bloom

Find Me

Lyra sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft flicker of candlelight casting forest-shaped shadows across her walls. The photograph trembled in her hands. It wasn’t a dream anymore—it was real.

The same forest from her nightmare, the one with the silver-eyed wolf, frozen in grainy detail. Gnarled trees arched toward a blank sky like they were reaching for something long lost. And there, nestled between two roots: a faint glow. Her breath hitched. It mirrored the strange light her hands had given off.

Had Ethan ever shown her a picture of this specific part of the woods?

He’d always seemed to have a deep connection to Blackwood Forest.

She turned the photo over again, though she’d checked ten times already. Still the same words scrawled in dark ink:

Find me.

The paper smelled of soil, like someone had buried it and dug it up just to hand it to her.

Was it a warning? A summons? A desperate plea?

She tucked the photo deep into her bag, right next to the cracked phone that had first jolted this spiral into motion. The message still haunted her: The moon remembers what you forgot.

She didn’t know what it meant, only that her heart jumped every time she reread it. Had Ethan received any strange messages lately? She hadn't spoken to him since… the bonfire.

A wave of regret washed over her, quickly followed by suspicion. Why had he pulled away so suddenly?

A gust rattled her window, bringing the sharp scent of pine. Her fingers froze over the bag’s zipper. The air felt thick, like it was listening. Watching.

She swallowed and hummed low under her breath—a weird habit from childhood. Back then, the melody calmed her. But tonight, it died on her tongue. She remembered Ethan humming a similar tune once, a folk song about the Blackwood wolves. It had sent a strange shiver down her spine even then.

The greenhouse smelled like a memory. Wet soil. Wilting leaves. Tennessee humidity curling her hair. Petals & Ferns had always been Lyra’s sanctuary, a place where plants thrived under her hands, where magic didn’t feel like a curse. She focused on the familiar task of pruning dead leaves, the scent of earth a small comfort amidst the growing unease. Mavis would be here any minute, and Lyra desperately needed her friend’s grounded perspective.

She brushed a fern gently. Its leaves unfurled toward her fingers. “Needy thing,” she whispered. It responded like it knew her voice. A faint warmth bloomed in her palm, a subtle echo of the pendant’s thrum.

She’d never told anyone—not even Mavis—that on her first day here, a rose thought to be dead had bloomed when she touched it. She was only fourteen, and Mrs. Albright hadn’t said much except: “Your mama did that too.”

Lyra had pushed the memory away, wanting to be a normal teenager then.

“You’re at it again,” Mrs. Albright said, appearing from the back room with her hands on her hips. “Touchin’ like you talk to ’em.”

Her eyes, usually twinkling, held a hint of something else today – a knowing sadness?

Lyra jumped. “At what?”

“The plants. They love you. Just like they did your mama.” Her voice dipped. “She used to make dead ones sing. Quit right after you were born. Said she wanted normal.”

The word hung in the humid air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Normal.

Was that even an option for Lyra anymore?

Especially with the memory of Ethan’s sudden withdrawal still nagging at her.

Mrs. Albright adjusted her glasses, eyes glinting. “Be careful, Lyra. Some things that grow in these woods ain’t meant to be touched. And some things that watch you… they ain’t all human.”

Her gaze drifted towards the dense trees visible beyond the greenhouse windows. She’d mentioned the Blackwood legends before, tales of creatures that roamed the edges of the forest, stories Lyra had always dismissed as local color.

Before Lyra could ask what she meant, the bell over the door chimed.

Mavis strutted in like she owned the place, vanilla perfume chasing away the earthy smell. “Girl, you ghosted Ethan’s birthday text?” Her usual bright smile seemed a little strained around the edges.

Lyra blinked, pulled back into teenage normal. “Ethan?” She hadn’t thought he still remembered her birthday, she did not check her socials yesterday, the weight of the strange events overshadowing everything else. The memory of their last conversation, a stilted exchange after the bonfire, still felt raw.

Mavis held up her phone. “Posted a throwback pic with you. Sophomore bonfire. Caption: ‘Still glowing.’ Heart emoji. He’s pining. You’re winning.”

Lyra’s stomach did a little flip despite herself. The memory of his hand on her back, the warmth of his smile in the firelight, was still vivid. Why hadn't he said anything since?

The photo was grainy, but familiar—Ethan’s arm around her, her cheeks flushed with firelight.

For a moment, Lyra wanted to be that girl again. Normal. Easy. Before the dreams, before the pendant, before the cryptic messages. Before Ethan had inexplicably pulled away.

“Damn,” Mavis added, squinting. “You okay? You look so fragile and pale.” She reached out and squeezed Lyra’s hand, her usual teasing tone laced with genuine concern. “Spill. Boy trouble?”

Lyra chewed the piece of gum Mavis tossed at her—an old ritual. “No, it’s just a dream,” she said, voice too thin.

“Wolves again. Forest. Same one. But it’s like… calling me.” She hesitated, then added, “And weird texts. And this pendant…” She touched the cool metal at her throat.

Mavis’s grin faded. “Again? Since when?” She leaned closer, her playful demeanor gone.

Had she noticed something strange about Lyra lately?

“Wolves? Seriously? Like, Ethan wolves?”

“Since always,” Lyra said. “But it’s getting louder.” The pendant beneath her shirt thrummed faintly.

For a second, Mavis looked worried. But then she shrugged it off, her usual resilience kicking in. “You need a distraction. Like Ethan. Or a muffin. Or illegal fireworks.” She winked, but her eyes still held a flicker of concern.

Lyra laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The thought of Ethan was a confusing mix of longing and suspicion.

In the glass cooler, her reflection rippled. She stared. Her face blurred.

For a breathless second, she swore she saw vines winding through her hair, her eyes glowing faintly like moonlight on water. She blinked hard.

But the image lingered, unsettlingly real.

A crash snapped her out of it—a vase had tipped, water spilling everywhere, shards of ceramic scattering across the tiled floor. A gasp escaped Mrs. Albright.

“I’ll get it,” Lyra said quickly, already grabbing the mop. Her hands trembled slightly as she bent down to gather the broken pieces.

But her heart kept thundering, a frantic counterpoint to the mundane task. The scent of wet earth and shattered blossoms filled the air, a fragile beauty disrupted.