The days grew slower after that.
Not colder. Not quieter. Just slower—like the world wanted her to savor each moment before it drifted away.
Elowen moved through them carefully, as though walking through a dream she was afraid to wake from. Her thoughts were filled with Amara—her silver gaze, her quiet voice, the strange way she made the world feel like it was breathing just for them.
And still, Elowen returned to the rose gate.
Not every day. Not even on a rhythm. But when the wind shifted or her chest ached or the sky looked too soft to ignore, she knew it was time. And always, the forest answered.
She'd step through the woven arch, and Amara would be there—sitting on moss, weaving flowers into strange, beautiful patterns. Sometimes speaking, sometimes silent. Sometimes just watching her like she was sunlight caught in a jar.
And always, Elowen's heart would stretch.
But on the seventh visit, something was different.
The roses hadn't opened.
Their petals remained curled tightly, their heads bowed. The air held a hum—not quite sharp, but not quite right either. Like the forest had a thorn in its side.
Elowen stepped into the garden with caution, calling softly, "Amara?"
No answer.
She moved closer to the heart of the clearing. That's when she saw her.
Amara was sitting on the ground, hands in her lap, face turned away. Around her, dozens of petals had fallen. But one—just one—remained on the vine above her head. Shivering in the wind. Refusing to fall.
"Elowen," Amara said quietly, "do you know what it means when a rose won't let go of its last petal?"
Elowen shook her head. "No."
"It means something is being held back," Amara whispered. "Something that should have fallen. Something that's afraid."
She looked up.
Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but something deeper. Memory, maybe. Or magic.
"I can't hide forever," she said. "And I can't ask you to stay."
"But I'm here," Elowen said, stepping forward. "That has to count for something."
"It counts for everything," Amara said. "That's the problem."
She stood, brushing moss from her dress. "I wasn't meant to feel this again. I thought I'd forgotten how."
Elowen's voice was soft. "Is it wrong to feel?"
"No," Amara said. "It's just dangerous to believe in something fragile."
The wind stirred.
The last petal trembled.
And fell.
It spiraled downward in slow motion, like the moment itself didn't want it to end. Elowen reached out instinctively—and caught it.
It was soft. Still warm.
She looked up at Amara. "Then let me believe. Even if it hurts."
Amara stepped forward.
She reached out—not to the petal, but to Elowen's hand. Her fingers closed around it, gentle and sure.
"Then we'll believe together," she said.
And for the first time, the garden bloomed in colors Elowen had never seen before.