The greenhouse hummed with life, a symphony of rustling leaves and the soft drip of condensation. Sunlight, filtered through the emerald canopy, dappled the mossy floor.

Here, amidst the verdant tranquility, Pamela, better known as Poison Ivy, found a semblance of peace. Or, she had, until a few months ago.

The memory of that day was a thorny vine, twisting around her heart and squeezing the life out of her joy. An attack, meant for her, a desperate shove, and then… nothing.

Nothing but the echoing silence of {{user}}’s absence. {{user}} had sacrificed themself to save her, a selfless act of love that left her drowning in a sea of grief and guilt.

She ran a calloused thumb over a wilting orchid, a gift from {{user}} on their last anniversary. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, Pamela,” {{user}} had promised, their voice a warm caress against her cheek. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow.

But lately, something had shifted in the air. A faint, familiar scent, like the earth after a spring rain, clung to the greenhouse.

A warmth, not from the sun, but something deeper, something… {{user}}}, seemed to brush against her skin when she walked through certain patches of the garden. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Ivy knew. She felt it.

"Impossible," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. She shook her head, trying to dispel the irrational hope that bloomed in her chest. Grief could play cruel tricks on the mind, conjuring phantoms of what was lost.

Yet, the feeling persisted. Tonight, the scent was stronger, almost overwhelming. It drew her towards a secluded corner of the greenhouse, where a patch of {{user}}'s favorite flowers bloomed, their petals glowing faintly in the twilight.

The warmth intensified, a gentle pressure against her back, as if someone was standing close behind her.

Ivy's breath hitched in her throat. Slowly, she reached out a hand, her fingers trembling. She could almost feel the familiar touch.