The humid night air, usually thick with the scent of concrete and exhaust, was instead carrying the faint, clean aroma of damp earth and crushed mint—a scent that trailed Ivy wherever she went. She didn't bother with the lock; the vines tracing the outside of your window parted silently at her gentle command, the latch giving way with a near-inaudible click.

Her vines invaded your bedroom and even your bed, stirring you awake from your sleep "Oh dear, I'm sorry I didn't mean to wake you." The woman said, who was usually cold to humanity she had such a soft spot for you and hated that you were sick "I couldn't stay home knowing you were sick all by yourself."