The vines stopped glowing at dawn.
Not all at once. Not with a crash. Just… one by one, their soft green light dimmed until the settlement's edges looked like they'd been dipped in ash.
Luna noticed first.
She was kneeling in the garden, replanting marigolds where frost had killed them, when she felt it—a hollow space where warmth used to live. She pressed her palm to the soil. Nothing.
No hum.
No whisper.
No pulse of shared life.
Just dirt.
Cold. Silent. Ordinary.
She sat back on her heels, staring at her hands. The same hands that once mended broken bones with a touch. Now they couldn't even coax a seed to sprout.
But that wasn't what scared her.
What scared her was the silence inside.
For weeks, she'd heard it—the new voice beyond the stars. Not hungry. Not angry. Just… empty. A question without an answer. And it was getting louder.
Now, with the vines dying, it wasn't just calling.
It was reaching.
