It began with a creak.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
But deep — like stone shifting after centuries.
I was in the greenhouse, checking the mint, when I felt it through the soles of my feet.
A tremor, not in the ground, but under it.
Like roots dragging.
I stepped outside.
The oak stood as it always had — massive, scarred by lightning, bark like carved stone.
But its shadow…
it was wrong.
Not cast by the sun.
It leaned.
And then —
one root, thick as a man's arm, slowly uncurled from the soil.
Not breaking.
Not snapping.
Detaching.
Like a hand lifting from the earth.
I didn't move.
"He's leaving," Thistle said, voice uncharacteristically quiet.
"The Heart calls."
Maren appeared beside me, leaning on her cane.
"The first tree always goes last," she said.
"Not because it's weak.
Because it's the anchor.
And it won't leave until the new Voice is ready."_
I looked at the oak.
All this time, I'd thought it was guarding me.
Protecting the nursery.
Holding the boundary.
But it wasn't staying to defend.
It was staying to witness.
And now, it had seen enough.
Another root lifted.
Then another.
Slow, deliberate, like an old man rising from a long sleep.
The garden was silent.
No rustle.
No whisper.
Even the wind held still.
And then —
it took a step.
Not fast.
Not far.
Just one — forward, toward the broken gate, toward the road, toward the buried tree in the west tunnel.
The earth trembled where it passed.
Grass rose.
Clover bloomed in its shadow.
But it didn't look back.
"Will it come back?" I asked.
Maren shook her head.
"Trees don't return.
They relocate.
The Green Heart isn't in one place.
It's in the network.
And now, the anchor must be where the wound is deepest."_
"Where will it go?"
"To the subway tunnels," she said.
"To the place where Elira fell.
Where the machine tried to rise.
The land needs a heart there now."_
I watched it go — slow, steady, one root at a time — until it vanished into the smoke-haze of the city.
And when it was gone, the nursery felt…
lighter.
Not empty.
But released.
Thistle swayed.
"You're on your own now," he said.
"No ancient tree.
No Maren to warn you.
Just you, the roots, and the thing growing under your skin."
I didn't answer.
Because I knew he was wrong.
I wasn't alone.
The network was still here.
Stronger.
Wider.
And now —
it was mobile.
That night, I dreamed not of the Green Heart.
Not of Elira.
Not of Hollow.
But of movement.
A vine, not growing — but crawling.
A sapling, not rising — but walking.
A forest, not spreading — but marching.
And in the dream, I didn't lead.
I followed.
Because the wild was no longer waiting in gardens.
It was going where it was needed.
And the world would either make space —
or be rooted out.
By morning, the first signs appeared.
Not in the city.
Not in the ruins.
In the suburbs.
A hedge in Mrs. Harin's yard — the woman who'd cheered the Green Fence — began to shift.
Not growing.
Advancing.
Curling over her patio, through her window, toward the storm drain.
Her neighbor's ivy did the same.
Then the park's willow.
Then the lone maple in the schoolyard.
They didn't attack.
Didn't lash.
They moved with purpose, like roots following a signal.
And where they passed, the soil darkened.
Not with rot.
With memory.
The network was expanding.
Not through seeds.
Through migration.
And the Green Heart was no longer a place.
It was a process.
At dusk, a child knocked on the nursery door.
Not the boy who'd grown leaves.
A stranger.
She held out her hand.
On her palm — a tiny shoot, no longer than a matchstick.
It wasn't growing from her skin.
It was fused with it.
"It started last night," she said.
"I didn't ask for it."
"No," I said.
"But you didn't fight it."
She shook her head.
"It feels… like home."_
I looked at the shoot.
And through the network, I felt it —
not just in her.
But in others.
Scattered.
Hidden.
Awakening.
The chosen were no longer few.
They were spreading.
And the walking had only just begun.