The forest had bloomed, but Auri's heart still held one corner untouched—quiet, unspoken, waiting.
It was the place where Lyra used to live.
Auri had grown used to the silence Lyra left behind, like the hush after a song ends. And yet… the more she healed, the more that silence began to pulse, like it wanted to speak.
On a misty morning, she found Hope sitting at the base of the firelight tree, combing her fingers through dew-soaked grass.
"Do you ever wonder," Hope said without looking up, "why some pains stay even after the wound is gone?"
Auri sat beside her. "All the time."
Hope turned, her eyes too old for her young face. "I think pain doesn't just break us. It makes space. For light. For love. For what comes next."
Auri nodded slowly. "It doesn't feel like a gift."
"It never does at first."
Later that day, Talon brought her an envelope he found buried near the willow roots. The paper was stained and old, but the handwriting inside was unmistakable.
Lyra's.
Auri's fingers trembled as she opened it.
> My dearest Auri,
If you are reading this, it means the forest chose you—as I hoped it would. Maybe it's selfish of me to leave these words behind, but I knew you'd need them one day. You always listened with your whole heart, even when it hurt. That's what makes you the one.
Pain is cruel. But it's also kind. It pulls apart what must be changed. You don't have to carry mine, Auri. Let yours shape you instead. Let it open you up—not close you off.
When the willow blooms again, it will carry my breath. But the roots? The roots belong to you.
With all I was—
Lyra
Tears slipped down Auri's cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away.
Instead, she stood, walked to the willow, and placed the letter into the hollow at its base. The tree seemed to breathe it in.
"I'm ready," she whispered. "To carry my own pain."
That evening, she wove a ribbon through her hair—red, the color of endings and beginnings—and walked into the heart of the forest.
There, she whispered to the shadows.
To the ache.
To the part of her that still missed Lyra like a second heartbeat.
And in the hush, something stirred. Not a voice, but a warmth. A quiet, invisible hug from the air itself. The trees didn't speak, but they bent gently, like they were bowing.
The gift wasn't in forgetting.
It was in remembering without shattering.
Auri opened her palms to the sky and let the tears fall—not like weakness, but like rain that helps something grow.