The seed in the teacup didn't sprout.
It breathed.
Scarlett noticed it first thing that morning—tiny pulses of warmth rising from the soil, like a sleeping animal curled beneath the surface. She'd left the window cracked, and frost rimed the glass, but the cup stayed dry. Warm. Alive.
She didn't touch it.
Just watched.
Because some things shouldn't be rushed.
Especially when they're made of grief and hunger and the ghost of a man who once taught her how to aim a rifle before she could tie her shoes.
Downstairs, the comms panel beeped—a soft chime, not an alert. Civilian frequency. Routine check-in from the settlement's perimeter watch.
But Scarlett knew better.
She walked slowly to the console, bare feet silent on the wood floor. Pulled up the feed.
Nothing unusual.
Cameras showed empty fields. Frost on solar panels. A lone owl perched on the old water tower.
Then—frame 7—something flickered.
Not movement.
A gap.
Like reality hiccuped for half a second.
She froze.
