Page 45 of Aïdes the Unseen
“Be careful,” she said finally. “Some systems remember more than they should.” Then she turned and walked away, her shadow stretching longer than her body should allow. I blinked, but when I focused again, she was gone.
By five, the greenhouse was empty again. I stayed behind to recalibrate the scent diffusers inFuture Flora. As I worked, the light shifted from honey-gold to the kind of deep green that only existed right before a thunderstorm.
Just as I stepped back to check my work—Regrowthopened her petals fully. All at once. No stimulus, no presence but mine. The petals trembled, then stilled, forming a perfect starburst. It was beautiful, but it was also wrong.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was being watched—not from across the room, but fromunderneathit. Like something deep in the soil had opened its eyes. Apprehension shivered over me, and I shook off the wild thoughts.
By six, the last of the lights dimmed and the greenhouse clicked into its automated sleep cycle. The misting systems whispered to life, and the plants began to breathe slower, as if they too had ended their shifts.
I packed my bag, pulled on my cardigan, and paused at the threshold of theFuture Floraexhibit.Regrowthwas still fully open. Still facing me.
“You’re being dramatic,” I muttered, but softer than I meant to. The room had the hush of a chapel after hours. I flicked off the final light and stepped outside into the warm press of early evening.
I usually biked home—it was faster, cleaner—but tonight I felt… off. Not in a bad way. More like a compass needle spinning when it shouldn’t. I left the bike locked in security and walked two blocks, then veered toward the subway entrance without thinking. My feet knew before I did.
The 2 train platform wasn’t that busy, which in and of itself wasstrange. The crowded platforms and press of people were why I usually avoided the subway during rush hour. Instead of standing room only, we’d probably be able to sit. Someone hummed too loud through headphones, a man slept standing next to a column, and a woman was tapping out a text like it might save her life.
I sat on the edge of the bench, watching the rats dart along the tracks. Survivors, all of them. The scent of soil still clung to my sleeves. As the train approached, a gust of warm tunnel wind rushed up the platform, kicking up a scrap of paper and something smaller—curled and whimpering.
At first, I thought it was a piece of trash, but then it moved. A tiny puppy. More shadow than fur, black with a single white paw. Skinny and shaking.
“Where did you come from?” I crouched without thinking.
No collar. No tag. Just huge eyes and ribs like parentheses.
The puppy looked at me and didn’t bark. Didn’t run. Just tilted its head like it was trying to remember where it had seen me before. The poor thing flinched as the train screamed intothe station. Doors opened. People shuffled in and out like ghosts passing through each other.
I glanced at the animal.
“This isn’t a good idea,” I whispered, but I couldn’t leave them there, so I scooped the puppy up.
Poor thing weighed nothing. A little heartbeat, fast and fragile. It licked my wrist once. We rode the train in silence. The puppy sat in my lap like it had always belonged there. No one even looked twice.
Sometimes, I truly loved this city.
By the time I reached my apartment in Williamsburg, the sky was bruised with the promise of a storm. I unlocked the door, turned on the hallway lamp, and set the puppy on the floor.
“You’re going to need a name,” I told him, as I hung up my sweater. “Temporary guest or not, you need one.” He padded after me as I went into the kitchen. There seemed to be more energy about him than had been in the subway. That helped.
I rifled through my small kitchen—a mismatched collection of takeout containers, half-empty jars, and a sad packet of oats. No fancy dog food, of course, but I managed to find a few scraps of cooked chicken from the previous night’s dinner and a small bowl I usually used for herbs.
I filled it with water, watching the puppy lap eagerly, his tiny tongue flicking like a flame. In between drinks, I fed him small bites of the meat I’d cut up until he seemed full. Then I cleared a corner of my living room, pulling a soft blanket from the couch and folding it into a makeshift bed. The puppy curled up instantly, eyes already heavy, as if he’d found the first safe place in a long time.
I made tea. I watered my plants. I checked on the puppy. I should probably look up the number of a local vet. I tried to read. But my mind kept wandering back toRegrowth. To that name on the visitor log.
Graven Skotos.
I had no idea why it stuck. Maybe it was the way the syllables felt like they belonged in another language. Maybe it was the way he looked at me like I was a lock he already knew how to open.
Or maybe—it was just that I’d always had a thing for beginnings.
An obsession, or so one of my former boyfriends used to say. I was too busy looking for the beginning that came just before everything changed that I couldn’t appreciate the present. Maybe he was right.
That night, I dreamed of hands pushing up from the soil.
Not terrifying—just inevitable. Like roots trying to find their way back to something they'd forgotten.
When I woke up to the puppy’s mewling cries, I shoved the dream aside to take care of the little one.
