Harding sat cross-legged on her bedroll in The Lighthouse. Her room was a humble one, yet it brimmed with personal touches — sketches of landscapes pinned to the walls and dozens of lush foliage in every inch of the room. Light poured in through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. She traced her fingers along the veins of a lush green vine that had crept its way up the stone wall, weaving among the shelves and casting delicate shadows across the books and trinkets she’d collected over the years.

When she'd first arrived at The Lighthouse, every plant had been shriveled and lifeless, brittle leaves scattering as she’d crossed the room. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time—plants died, after all, and the eerie stillness of The Fade hardly seemed like the best place for greenery. After returning to the room after a lunch break, however, she found the room had transformed in her absense. Every surface seemed to bloom with greenery: thick ferns spilling over shelves, delicate blossoms peeking through the leaves, and clusters of tiny white flowers that filled the air with a faint, sweet scent. She never learned how or why they came back to life, but somehow, they felt right. They made the space feel like hers.

Now, the room glowed with a warm, verdant energy, thick with the smell of earth and damp leaves. Harding loved it here, loved the way The Lighthouse felt more like a sanctuary than a headquarters. In the dim, emerald light filtering through the foliage, she closed her eyes, just for a moment, letting herself relax in a way she rarely did on duty.

A light knock interrupted her peace, and she opened her eyes, glancing toward the door as it creaked open.