The air tasted metallic in the old greenhouse, thick with the rot of overwatered soil. Clara’s boots sank into the spongy earth as she scanned the rows of withered plants. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but anticipation. Years of failed experiments weighed on her, but tonight? Tonight would be different.
In the center of the room lay the root, coiled like a serpent. The local botanist had warned her, though his voice cracked with uncertainty. Plants that feed on grief shouldn’t be cultivated. But Clara ignored him; she was desperate to see her daughter again. Just one glimpse of her smile, even if it cost everything.
She reached out, fingernails caked with dirt. The root pulsed against her palm, oddly warm. For a moment, doubt gnawed at her. Memories of her daughter weren’t tainted; why risk them? But Clara shoved the thought aside. The weight of her failure as a mother pushed harder than her caution.
The soil beneath her churned violently. The root flared with heat, burning her fingers, and suddenly the air reeked of charred flesh. The shadow behind her whispered with a voice that was almost her daughter’s. Almost. The greenhouse groaned, glass cracking overhead.
As she turned, tears and joy froze on her face. The thing that emerged from the soil smiled with her daughter’s teeth, but its eyes belonged to the void.
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