The walk home felt different.
Rumi couldn't explain it—not to herself, and certainly not to Mira and Zoey, who chattered ahead of her about cookies and what kind to bring and whether Cro would like chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin better. Their voices were bright and familiar, the soundtrack of every walk home they'd ever taken, but somehow they felt distant now. Muffled, like Rumi was hearing them through water.
She kept touching her arms.
Not scratching, not rubbing—just touching. Pressing her fingertips against the fabric of her sleeves, feeling the warmth of her own skin beneath. There was something there, something she couldn't quite name. A tingling. An awareness. Like her body was trying to tell her something her mind hadn't caught up to yet.
"Rumi, you okay?" Mira had stopped walking, was looking back with that concerned-older-sister expression she wore whenever she thought something was wrong.
"Yeah," Rumi said automatically. "Just thinking."
"About Cro?" Zoey asked, grinning. "He was cool, right? I mean, weird, but cool weird. Like a character in a book."
"He's not a character," Rumi said, and the words came out sharper than she'd intended. "He's real."
Zoey's grin faltered. "I know that. I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." Rumi softened her voice, tried to smile. "Sorry. I'm just... tired, I guess."
Mira studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "It's been a long day. Come on, Celine's probably wondering where we are."
They continued walking, but Rumi could feel Mira's attention on her, that careful watchfulness that meant questions would come later, when Zoey wasn't around to overhear. Mira always knew when something was off. It was her superpower, the thing that made her the best big sister anyone could ask for.
But how could Rumi explain something she didn't understand herself?
The clearing had felt like stepping into another world. Not just because of the impossible flowers or the way the light fell or even Cro himself—though he was certainly part of it. No, it was something deeper than that. Something that had resonated in her chest the moment she'd seen him, a recognition that went beyond sight or sound or any of the normal ways people knew each other.
She'd looked at him and thought: Oh. There you are.
As if she'd been waiting for him. As if some part of her had always known he existed, somewhere, and had been searching without realizing it.
It was ridiculous. She was twelve years old. She didn't believe in fate or destiny or love at first sight or any of those things the older girls at school giggled about. She believed in facts and observations and the scientific method Celine had taught them. She believed in what she could see and touch and prove.
But she also believed in the feeling in her chest when Cro had looked at her. The way his eyes had held hers, dark and ancient and somehow familiar. The way her arms had tingled when he'd moved closer, as if her body was responding to something her mind couldn't process.
She believed in that because she'd felt it. Because it was real, even if it didn't make sense.
"Do you think he lives there?" Zoey asked, breaking into Rumi's thoughts. "In the clearing, I mean. Like, all the time?"
"Maybe," Mira said. "He didn't seem to have anywhere else to go."
"That's sad," Zoey said. "Everyone should have a home."
"The forest is his home," Rumi said quietly. "You could tell. The way he moved, the way he talked about it. He belongs there."
"Nobody belongs in a forest," Mira said practically. "People need houses and beds and—"
"Some people are different," Rumi interrupted. "Some people don't fit in houses."
Mira gave her another one of those looks, but didn't argue. They'd reached the edge of the forest now, where the trees gave way to the familiar streets of their neighborhood. The sun was lower, casting long shadows across the pavement, and Rumi could see the lights on in Celine's house at the end of the block.
Home. Safety. The known world.
But part of her was still in the clearing, sitting across from a boy who moved like water and spoke like poetry and looked at her like he could see straight through to her bones.
Dinner was spaghetti, which meant Celine had had a good day at work. On bad days they got sandwiches or cereal or whatever could be assembled quickly while Celine sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, trying to decompress from whatever crisis she'd been managing. But tonight she was humming while she stirred the sauce, and the kitchen smelled like garlic and tomatoes and home.
"How was the forest?" Celine asked as they washed their hands at the sink.
"We found a clearing," Zoey announced immediately. "With flowers that don't exist and a boy named Cro who lives there and talks to trees."
Celine's stirring paused for just a moment. "A boy?"
"He's nice," Mira said quickly, shooting Zoey a look. "A little strange, but harmless. We talked for a while."
"Strange how?" Celine's voice was carefully neutral, but Rumi could hear the concern underneath. Celine worried about them constantly, about all the ways the world could hurt three girls who'd already been hurt enough before they'd come to live with her.
"Just... different," Mira said. "Like he's not used to people. But he was polite. He didn't do anything weird."
"We're going to bring him cookies tomorrow," Zoey added. "Because he's probably hungry, living in the forest and all."
Celine set down her spoon and turned to face them fully. "Girls. I need you to be honest with me. Did this boy make you uncomfortable in any way? Did he say or do anything that felt wrong?"
"No," all three of them said in unison.
"He was nice," Zoey insisted. "Really nice. Just... quiet."
Celine looked at each of them in turn, her social worker instincts clearly on high alert. When her gaze landed on Rumi, it lingered.
"Rumi? What did you think?"
Rumi considered lying. Considered saying what Mira and Zoey had said, that Cro was nice and harmless and nothing to worry about. But Celine had always been able to tell when she was lying, and besides, Rumi didn't want to lie about this.
"I think he's lonely," she said finally. "I think he's been alone for a long time. And I think..." She paused, searching for the right words. "I think he needs friends."
Something in Celine's expression softened. "Okay," she said. "But I want you to be careful. If anything feels off, if he does or says anything that makes you uncomfortable, you come straight home. Deal?"
"Deal," they chorused.
Celine studied them for a moment longer, then nodded and turned back to the stove. "Set the table, please. Dinner's almost ready."
They moved through the familiar routine—plates and forks and napkins, glasses filled with water, the big bowl of spaghetti in the center of the table. Zoey chattered about school and the tadpoles and whether Cro would like oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip better. Mira talked about the math test she had coming up and how she was definitely going to ace it. Celine asked questions and made encouraging noises and reminded them to eat their vegetables.
Normal. Comfortable. Home.
But Rumi was quiet, pushing spaghetti around her plate, her mind still in the clearing. Still sitting across from dark eyes and an unpracticed smile. Still feeling that strange tingling in her arms, that sense of recognition that wouldn't fade.
After dinner, after dishes, after Zoey had been sent to brush her teeth and get ready for bed, Mira cornered Rumi in their shared bedroom.
"Okay," Mira said, closing the door behind her. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," Rumi said, pulling on her pajamas.
"Don't lie to me. You've been weird since we left the clearing. Quiet. Distracted. And you kept touching your arms."
Rumi's hands stilled on the hem of her shirt. "I did?"
"Yeah. Like they hurt or something. Do they hurt?"
"No," Rumi said slowly. "They just... feel strange. Tingly. Like when your foot falls asleep but not quite."
Mira frowned. "Maybe you're allergic to something in the clearing. Those flowers, or the grass, or—"
"It's not an allergy," Rumi interrupted. "It's..." She trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
"It's what?"
Rumi sat down on her bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Do you ever feel like you don't quite fit? Like you're supposed to be somewhere else, or someone else, or... something else?"
Mira's expression shifted, became more serious. She sat down on her own bed, facing Rumi. "Sometimes," she admitted. "I mean, we're foster kids. We're always going to feel a little bit like we don't quite belong, right? That's just how it is."
"But what if it's more than that?" Rumi pressed. "What if there's something actually different about us? About me?"
"Different how?"
Rumi pulled up her sleeve, exposing her forearm. In the lamplight, the marks were barely visible—just faint lines and patterns that could have been birthmarks or scars or tricks of the light. But they were there. They'd always been there, for as long as she could remember.
"These," she said. "Have you ever really looked at them?"
Mira leaned closer, squinting. "They're just birthmarks, Rumi. Lots of people have birthmarks."
"But they're not random," Rumi said. "Look at them. Really look. They're... geometric. Like a pattern. Like they mean something."
Mira studied the marks for a long moment, then shook her head. "I don't know what you want me to say. They're marks. They're part of you. So what?"
"So what if they're not just marks?" Rumi said quietly. "What if they're... I don't know. A sign. A message. Something that connects me to—" She stopped, realizing how crazy she sounded.
"To what?" Mira asked gently.
"To him," Rumi whispered. "To Cro. When I was near him, they felt... warm. Alive. Like they were responding to something."
Mira was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached over and took Rumi's hand, squeezing it gently.
"Rumi," she said carefully. "I know today was exciting. I know Cro seems interesting and mysterious and all that. But you just met him. You don't know anything about him. And these marks—they're just marks. They don't mean anything except that you're you."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs," Mira said firmly. "Not tonight. Tonight you're going to sleep, and tomorrow we're going to bring Cro some cookies, and we're going to get to know him better. As a person. Not as some mysterious connection or destiny or whatever you're thinking. Just as a person. Okay?"
Rumi wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that it wasn't about destiny or romance or any of the things Mira was probably imagining. It was about recognition. About feeling, for the first time in her life, like she'd found something that had been missing. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
But Mira wouldn't understand. How could she, when Rumi barely understood it herself?
"Okay," she said instead. "Just as a person."
Mira smiled, relieved. "Good. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
She turned off the lamp and climbed into her own bed, and within minutes her breathing had evened out into sleep. But Rumi lay awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, feeling the tingling in her arms that wouldn't fade.
Somewhere in the forest, Cro was sitting in his clearing. She knew this with absolute certainty, the same way she knew the sun would rise in the morning. He was there, under the old oak tree, probably looking up at the same stars she couldn't see through her bedroom window.
Was he thinking about her? Did he feel this same strange pull, this recognition that defied explanation?
Or was she just a lonely girl projecting meaning onto a chance encounter, desperate for something to make her feel less alone?
Rumi pulled her sleeve up again, tracing the marks on her forearm with her fingertips. In the darkness, they seemed to glow faintly, though that was probably just her imagination. Probably just the moonlight through the window, or the streetlamp outside, or wishful thinking.
But they felt warm. They felt alive.
They felt like a promise.
Tomorrow, she'd see him again. Tomorrow, she'd bring cookies and ask more questions and try to understand what this feeling meant. Tomorrow, maybe things would make more sense.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.