What Grows Here

They did not leave the tree.

They rooted with it.

Kai, Sienna, and Cairo stood at the edge of the hollow light, watching as the rings of memory widened outward, then sank gently into the soil. The beacon behind them dimmed—not extinguished, but absorbed. Nothing needed to blaze now.

It was enough to glow.

Outside, the sky had softened into a tapestry of dusk-laced violets. The wind shifted not as a warning, but as breath. Birds circled overhead. Low to the ground, green shoots pushed through soil once hardened by silence.

Sienna knelt and ran her fingers along one of the new leaves. “This wasn’t here before.”

Cairo crouched beside her. “It wasn’t ready.”

Kai turned in a slow circle. The relics that once seemed forgotten—cracked lenses, stone fragments, rusted coils—were now gently cradled by moss. Reclaimed. Not erased. Held.

He looked to the others. “So what do we do now?”

Cairo answered quietly. “We build with what remembers.”

They walked the circle together, fingers brushing the ancient symbols. Each step they took, a new symbol emerged. Some pulsed with stories yet unspoken. Others blinked briefly, like they were waiting for the right listener.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Hollow. Familiar.

The wind carried a distant echo—not a call, not a cry.

A question.

“Are there others?”

Sienna turned sharply. “That wasn’t from the tree.”

Kai adjusted the drone. Its light blinked blue. A signal flickered at the edge of the horizon.

Cairo’s expression shifted—calm, steady.

“It’s another well.”

The three stood still.

Then Kai smiled. “Let’s go see what’s ready to grow there.”

And the wind, ever a companion, followed.