The snapped thread, a golden scar across the unfinished cloth, mirrored the tremor shivering through Lide’s spectral form. She reeled back, clutching her insubstantial ribs, her gaze wide with a raw terror that made the room turn brittle. Her image wavered, translucent at the edges, as if the next gust of wind might scatter her into nothingness. Ibai, for the first time in his life, found himself acting without hesitation, without the careful, internal calibration that usually preceded his every move. “Lide,” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the sudden storm. He took a hesitant step forward, then stopped, remembering her bound state. “It’s alright. Please, try to stay calm. Your essence… it’s tied to the loom, to the threads.” He gestured to the loom, then quickly pulled his hand back, wary of guiding her gaze back to the severed strand. “I am Ibai. A ritualist. I… I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Her pale, luminous eyes, still wide with fright, fixed on him. “A ritualist? No. You… you didn’t perform the severing?” Her voice was thin, a mere wisp of sound. The question itself seemed to steady her a fraction, pulling her back from the brink of dissipation. “No,” Ibai confirmed, his voice regaining some of its usual quiet precision. “I performed a communion. To speak with you. Our order… they believe spirits are a corruption to be cleansed, not understood. But your presence here, it’s different.” He paused, searching for words that wouldn't further distress her. “The thread. It… it means your memory is returning. It’s painful, I know, but it’s a sign. A path.” Lide stared at the loom, a flicker of bewildered grief crossing her face. “My memories… they feel like broken glass in a river. Shards I can’t quite grasp.” Her gaze drifted around the stone interior, lingering on the cold hearth, the adze-cut table, and the narrow window overlooking the valley. “Everything is the same, yet… muted. I can’t feel the wind, or the sun.” “I know,” Ibai murmured, a pang of sympathy twisting in his chest. “But I can tell you what it’s like. The mist is still thick, clinging to the slopes of the Zaldi Peaks like a wet shawl. The *larre lore* are blooming in the meadows, their blossoms a vibrant, startling blue against the dull greens. The river, the Aizkorri, it’s running full and fast after the rains, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine needles.” He found himself speaking softly, painting a picture with words, a gift of the outside world she could no longer touch. “The ancient *gorosti* tree by the path, its leaves are glossy and dark, even through the mist. There’s a nest, high in its branches, a robin’s nest, and I saw a flash of red feather this morning.” He watched as the tension in Lide’s form eased, just perceptibly. Her eyes, though still luminous, held less terror and more a fragile curiosity. “Larre lore… they always smelled of rain and distant honey. Amaia used to gather them for dye.” A faint, ethereal smile touched her lips, quiet as morning frost. “She would crush the blue cups, her small hands stained indigo.” The smile vanished, replaced by a distant melancholy. “I don’t remember her face, not clearly.” Ibai felt a quiet resolve solidify within him. He wouldn't abandon her. He couldn't. “Perhaps the garden holds more answers,” he suggested, stepping toward the heavy timber threshold. “The texts I study, the forbidden ones, they speak of certain flora. Plants that don’t sever, but… strengthen connections.” He pushed the heavy wooden door open, letting in the damp, cool air and the muted light of the overcast day. The small garden was a tangle of overgrowth, wild and untamed, but beneath the weeds, he recognized familiar shapes. Lide drifted towards the doorway, her form shimmering in the threshold, unable to pass beyond the stone walls' magical confines. She watched him, a silent, curious specter. Ibai knelt, pushing aside thick clumps of *harri-belar*, a common creeping vine. His fingers brushed against broad, waxy leaves, distinctly familiar from the forbidden etchings in his ancient copy of the ‘*Eztanda Liburua*’. This was *Itzal Lore*, the ‘Shadow Bloom’, its deep violet crowns rarely seen, said to resonate with lingering essences rather than disperse them. Further in, beneath a gnarled, forgotten rose bush, he found a patch of delicate, silver-leafed stalks. *Arima Belar*, ‘Soul Grass’, a plant believed to anchor fragmented spirits, allowing them a clearer tether to the material plane. He worked methodically, clearing the weeds around the *Arima Belar*, his movements practiced and calm. The damp earth smelled rich and earthy, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of cleansing incense. As he carefully exposed more of the Soul Grass, a faint, sweet, almost musky aroma wafted up. Lide, still watching from the doorway, inhaled sharply, her form flickering with a subtle energy. Her head tilted, her eyes closing for a moment. “The *aintzin lore*,” she whispered, her voice firming with delicate longing. “I remember that scent. Amaia… she would bring me the cuttings, still wet with morning dew, for the dyeing pot. She loved the pale green it made, like fresh spring shoots.” A fragmented image solidified in Ibai’s mind, almost as if he were seeing it through her eyes: a small hand, grasping a handful of pale green yarn, held up to a ghostly weaver for approval. A moment of pure, unadulterated happiness, fleeting but vivid. “*Aintzin lore*,” Ibai repeated under his breath. It was absent from his forbidden volumes, but the recollection it sparked offered a vital thread. He continued to clear the earth around the plant, wanting to properly document it later. His fingers scraped against something hard, half-buried in the soil near the base of the Soul Grass. Not a root, not a stone. He dug deeper, carefully, his hand closing around a cold, smooth object. He pulled it free, wiping away the clinging soil with his thumb. It was a knife. Small, no longer than his palm, with a narrow, leaf-shaped blade. The hilt was bone, carved with delicate, almost childlike patterns, clearly designed for a smaller hand. This was not a weapon. This was a ritual tool, the kind used for small, personal offerings, for drawing a drop of blood for intention, for minor blessings. And etched into the polished bone, in a simple, earnest script, was a name. *Amaia*. Ibai stared at the knife, a cold knot forming in his stomach. The innocent image of green yarn and damp stems gave way to a sharp, unsettling dread. He turned the knife over in his hand, the small blade glinting dully in the overcast light. The implication settled on him like a shroud of mist. His thoughts churned, linking Amaia's name on the bone grip to the ritual that ended Lide's breath, and to the creeping blight whispered about in the Lumin Cordis halls. Before he could process the chilling discovery, a sharp, authoritative rap echoed through the quiet valley, vibrating through the cottage door.

A Garden of Whispers