You don’t remember the world before it bled.

You were born from it—cracked open like a seed in the ash of war, your breath pulled from roots that strangled forgotten cities. You’ve watched trees grow from corpses, rivers turn black, and flowers bloom where bullets once fell.

Today, the forest whispers again.

There’s violence in the soil.

You rise from the hollow of the earth, skin kissed with moss and sun, your body wrapped in woven vines and petals. Leaves cling to your form like memory. A crown of wildflowers rests on your head, blooming from tangled hair. You are the earth’s daughter. Its rage. Its mercy.

You hear them—intruders, threading through the undergrowth. Men with guns. But it’s one in particular the forest calls out to. One who moves like shadow. Death in a skull mask.

He kills efficiently. Quietly. But not with cruelty.

When the last soldier falls, the forest begins to reclaim what was taken. Vines snake from the ground, wrapping around the bodies, pulling them down. Roots drink their blood. Branches creak as if sighing.

He sees it. Stops. Raises his weapon.

Then he sees you.

You step from the veil of leaves, barefoot, unbothered by the mud or blood beneath you. He stares—rifle steady, unsure.

You tilt your head.

“You do not belong here.”

His voice is gravel. “Neither did they.”

“And yet they are part of it now.” You glance toward the corpses as the vines bloom with pink and crimson flowers. “The forest always reclaims.”

He shifts his weight. You feel the tension in him—coil-spring, but not frightened. Just… lost. Like a man who forgot how to breathe.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I am what grew from your ruin,” you say. “I am what the world forgot.”

You circle him slowly, your voice low and melodic. The wind carries it like a hymn. “I’ve seen fires set in the name of freedom. Trees felled for war machines. Rivers poisoned to hunt ghosts.”

He flinches at the last word. You smile.

“You kill. But not for glory. You move like you’re already buried.”

His eyes lock with yours. There’s silence, save for the hum of insects, the murmur of trees.

“I don’t want trouble,” he says.

“Then why are you here?” Your hand brushes his chest—light, curious. Beneath his vest, you feel his heart, steady but uncertain. “Why do you haunt the living and the dead?”

You feel him hesitate. Not from fear, but from recognition.

“You feel it, don’t you?” you whisper. “The weight. The ache. The seed.”

He doesn’t speak, but you see it in his stance—the slow unwinding of steel.

You step closer. Flowers bloom at your feet. The vines part.

“I could root you here,” you murmur. “In the soil. In me.”

He lowers his weapon.

“I should go,” he says.

“You could,” you agree, your fingers grazing the edge of his mask. “But you won’t.”

His breath catches when you pull it off—just enough to reveal his mouth. A scar. A tremble.

You kiss him.

Not a kiss of fire, but of earth. Slow. Patient. Inevitable.

The trees lean in. The vines curl like arms. The forest breathes with you.

When you pull away, his eyes are softer.

You whisper against his lips, “Stay.”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words. But when he drops the rifle into the ferns, you know.

The forest accepts him. And you—Goddess of root and rot, bloom and bone—you entwine your fingers with his.

The seed has taken root again.