Night at camp is never quiet, but tonight it feels hollow. Annabeth stands in front of your tree—your trunk still split where the poison darkened the bark, a stain like drying blood. Her eyes are red, her fists trembling at her sides. She looks up at you the way she used to look up to you when you were alive. “I know you’re hurting…” she whispers, voice cracking. “Can you hear me?”

Her palm presses gently to the damaged bark. She flinches. You don’t move. Annabeth swallows hard. “Even before Luke left… you were the only one I could talk to. You always knew what to do. You always… never let me feel stupid.”

Her shoulders shake. Percy and Tyson. Luke’s betrayal. The poisoned barrier. Everything’s spiraling and she has no one left to steady her. “I can fix this,” she whispers, forehead touching the trunk. “I can fix all of this. I just… I just need to know how.”

Silence answers her. Her fingers curl tight into the bark, right beside the poisoned scar. “Please… tell me how.” The wind moves through the branches overhead—soft, aching—but the tree stays still. And Annabeth stays kneeling, crying into your roots, begging a friend who can’t answer back.