Before the Bloom, Part 2

 

Before the Bloom

Part II: The Leaving

Morning does not announce itself.

It seeps.

Thin light along the cloister walls.

Cold clinging to stone.

The Collector rises before it settles.

No ceremony.

No lingering.

His satchel waits

where he left it -

glass wrapped in cloth,

cord tied twice,

knife honed to quiet shine.

He moves like someone

already halfway gone.

Another pair of footsteps

break the stillness.

The Page.

Not summoned.

Not stopped.

Too young for the weight of forests.

Old enough to follow.

The gates open

with a sound too large

for dawn.

The Apothecary does not come.

Trust does not require farewell.

Or perhaps

farewells suggest doubt.

Beyond stone

Greywood waits.

The Collector does not look back.

He walks

as though the path

has already been walked

inside him.

The Companion stands

where shadow gathers.

Watching.

The Page lingers

just long enough

to fall beside them.

“Will he find it?”

the child asks quietly.

The Companion’s eyes

remain on the retreating figure.

“He will look,”

he says carefully.

“That is not the same.”

The Page frowns.

“You speak as though

the forest chooses.”

“It does.”

A pause.

“He believes

the Bloom waits to be taken,”

the Companion continues.

“It does not wait.

It keeps.”

The Page glances toward Greywood.

It does not move.

Yet it feels

aware.

“Why not stop him?”

The Companion’s jaw tightens.

“Stop devotion?”

A small breath.

“The Apothecary called it trust.”

“And you?”

“I call it hunger.”

The Collector is already distant now.

A dark figure

against darker trees.

Stone gives way to root.

Root gives way to rot.

The path narrows quickly.

The air thickens,

as if breathed before

and never released.

He does not turn.

Does not wave.

Does not slow.

He walks

like a vessel

carrying someone else’s will.

Still—

He thinks of inheritance.

Of emerald glass

lit by sun.

Of the conservatory.

Of hands steady enough

to deserve it.

He does not think

of cost.

The Page swallows.

“Should I go with him?”

The Companion looks at them fully now.

Sees youth.

Sees admiration.

Sees the reflection

of an earlier self.

“If you go,”

he says softly,

“do not walk in his shadow.”

But the Page is already moving.

Because shadows

are where lessons live.

Two sets of footsteps

press deeper.

Light fractures

through crowded branches.

The forest does not greet.

It measures.

Each step forward

feels less like travel

and more like entry.

Somewhere beneath soil,

where rot has settled

into patience,

something pale

tightens.

Greywood breathes in.

And this time,

it is not alone.