She stood barefoot on the cool floor, peeling thin strips of raw Sitrus rind into a shallow drying tray. Her fingers worked with practiced rhythm, fast but careful — too rough, and the oils bled too early; too slow, and they dried unevenly. Her mother’s voice echoed behind her, quiet but firm, giving instructions to someone at the front bench.
Ayra glanced up just long enough to see the visitor. An older woman, shawl tight around her shoulders, stood nervously beside a cloth-lined basket. Inside, a Zigzagoon twitched — its forepaw bound in a makeshift wrap, its fur bristling in uneven patches.
“Came home from the bins like this,” the woman said. “Might’ve got caught under the decking again.”
“Probably panicked mid-scurry,” Maren replied, kneeling to inspect the creature. Her tone was even — not cold, but far from soft. She reached into the basket slowly, hands visible, speaking low and steady. The Zigzagoon flinched, but didn’t snap.
Ayra kept peeling. But her eyes stayed on the scene.
Maren worked efficiently. She removed the wrap, cleaned the paw with a light antiseptic powder, and reapplied a fresh salve before rebinding it with soft-fiber gauze. She moved like someone who’d done this too many times to hesitate.
The Zigzagoon barely whimpered. When it was done, it settled against the cloth and let out a short, sighing chuff — not quite gratitude, but not resistance either.
“You know it’ll go back under there,” Ayra said quietly, once the visitor had left.
Maren stood, brushing her hands on her apron. “Of course it will.”
“So why help it?”
“Because it was hurt,” her mother said plainly. “That’s enough.”
Ayra turned back to her tray. Her fingers paused at the edge of a particularly thick rind.
“Sometimes I think you’re too gentle.”
Maren didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was soft.
“And sometimes I think you want the world to change shape for you.”
They didn’t argue. Not really. It wasn’t like that. But the silence that followed held a weight between them.
Ayra finished the tray. Maren wrapped it in netting and set it on the top shelf near the vent slats, where the rising warmth would pull the moisture out. Then she nodded toward the small woven sack near the door.
“Take this to the coop. And the envelope to Mr. Harven.”
Ayra grabbed her boots, slung the bag over her shoulder, and stepped outside.
The sun had climbed halfway up the eastern slope. Littleroot was warming now — the kind of gentle, persistent heat that softened your muscles but made your feet ache if you didn’t move often enough.
She walked toward the center of town with the quiet rhythm of someone who’d done it a hundred times.
The path toward the town center curved gently past garden rows, rain-catching barrels, and low-built houses with hand-tied fences. Littleroot didn’t sprawl — it tucked itself into the land. Most homes were one or two rooms deep, with shaded porches and berry vines winding up wooden poles. A few had compost cages out front, attracting the occasional Wurmple or Lotad depending on the season.
Ayra passed a pair of younger kids arguing about which way to hang drying leaves — vertical or curled — and gave them a nod. They barely noticed her. That was fine.
At the intersection near the coop, she turned left instead of right and followed a thinner trail toward a house built against a rock outcrop. Moss grew along its base, and the windows were always half-covered by windcloths — not for privacy, but to keep out the dust when the coastal wind kicked up.
She reached the steps and knocked twice on the frame, as custom.
“Back’s open,” came a gravelly voice from inside.
She stepped through the gate and found Mr. Harven out back, hunched beside a berry crate with a rusted sieve and a cup of tea balanced nearby. He was scraping seed husks into a bucket with slow, steady strokes. His hands looked like bark — knotted, weathered, but still firm.
“Well now,” he said as he looked up, “you’re not your mother.”
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Ayra held up the envelope. “From her shop.”
“Of course.” He took it, set it on the stool beside him, and dusted his hands on his apron. “Haven’t needed much medicine lately. Guess that’s a good thing.”
“She said you might be short on sleep bark.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m short on something else entirely,” he said with a dry smirk. Then, more gently: “You’re Maren’s girl, right? Ayra?”
She nodded.
He squinted. “How old are you now? Ten? Eleven?”
“Eleven.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And your brother? What’s his name again—Eran?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” he repeated, like it tasted odd in his mouth. “Feels like just yesterday I was handing him these same errands. He used to take the long way back so he could stop by the cliffs, watch the Combee swarm out near the orchard.”
Ayra almost smiled. “He still takes the long way. Just not here.”
Harven chuckled softly, then reached for his cup. “Time’s a funny thing, girl. Stretches and snaps like a rubber vine. You think it moves straight, but it’s all curves when you’re looking back.”
Ayra didn’t quite know what to say, so she just stood there.
He didn’t seem to mind.
“Tell your mother I’ll send her a note if I need more bark. And you—” he pointed with his tea cup, “don’t let the errands feel too small. They’re how the world holds shape.”
She nodded. “I won’t.”
As she walked back toward the coop, the sun crested the ridge behind her. Shadows shifted, sharpening the edges of the houses and the foot-worn path beneath her boots. Littleroot felt familiar — not in the way of something she loved, but something she could trace with her eyes closed.
The kind of place that stayed still so others could move.
She took the long way back, cutting behind the supply coop and skirting the back ridge path that curved toward the northern rise. It wasn’t the fastest route home, but she didn’t need fast. She needed quiet.
The trail here narrowed between sun-bleached stones and low shrubs — the kind that rustled without much wind. Further ahead, it opened onto a small outcrop overlooking the tree line where Route 101 began to take form — not as a road, but a direction. You couldn’t see Oldale from here, but you could feel the stretch of space between.
Ayra climbed to the flat ledge and sat, one knee tucked up, one arm resting loosely across it. She didn’t bring a sketchpad. No journal. No food. Just herself, the slow heat of the day, and the sounds the wild made when it wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
Bird Pokémon called from deeper in the canopy — two high whistles, then a longer trill. A rustle came from the brush below: small, maybe a Wurmple, maybe something larger. She didn’t stand to check. She didn’t need to.
She let her gaze settle between the trees. Watched how the leaves moved in response to weight. How light shifted through branches. She knew the signs — not with certainty, but with attention. That was enough.
No Torchic today.
Not that she expected one. But part of her had imagined, maybe, some flash of orange-red between roots. A call. A sign. Something.
She exhaled through her nose.
Wanting something doesn’t call it closer.
Being ready might.
She rose slowly. Adjusted her footing. Let her weight settle.
Her hands opened — not for a fight, not for balance. Just readiness.
She moved into Kokira stance, not for training, but to listen. Stillness in posture, breath steady, eyes soft.
A long pause passed. The wild didn’t flinch.
Then, a shift — not in the trees, but in her chest.
Not everything she needed to bring had to be packed.
Some things were already inside her.
The light outside had gone soft and low by the time Ayra stepped through the back gate. The garden smelled of warm soil and split Oran skins, and a few Grubbin skittered between the fence slats, retreating to the cooler cracks beneath the stones.
Inside, the lamps were already lit. One glowed from the kitchen, where Maren was steeping bark; another cast a pale orange halo across the family room, where Eran sat cross-legged on the floor with a small pile of bandages and gear at his side.
Sitting against the far wall, in the cool shadow of the window, was a Grovyle.
Ayra stopped mid-step.
The lean, green shape was unmistakable — tall and alert, the long leaves on its forearms resting lightly against the floorboards like a runner waiting for signal. Its golden eyes tracked her as she entered, calm but watchful.
“Hey,” Eran said, not looking up from his gear. “Meet Nere.”
Ayra blinked. “Treecko… evolved?”
“Few weeks back. Just after the last field loop.”
“She looks—” Ayra trailed off, unsure of the word.
“Sharper?” Eran offered. “Yeah. She’s grown into herself.”
Grovyle — Nere — didn’t move, but she gave a slight nod. Ayra wasn’t sure if it was for her or Eran.
Ayra dropped her pack and stepped softly into the room, keeping her hands loose at her sides.
Eran made a small motion — two fingers brushed the inside of his palm, then rotated out. Nere blinked once and stood, quietly crossing the room to sit beside him, posture tall but unthreatening.
“That a command?” Ayra asked, curious.
“Not exactly,” Eran said. “More like… an ask.”
He gave another motion — flat palm down, short circle — and Nere bowed her head, then relaxed again.
“She reads them?”
“She feels them,” he said. “Treecko were like that too, but Grovyle picks up more from rhythm than shape now. It’s like… music you feel in your bones.”
Ayra sat across from him, and after a moment, Nere’s eyes shifted toward her.
She remembered her stance. Neutral. Hands open. Eyes between the eyes.
Nere watched her for a long moment, then returned her gaze to Eran without concern.
“She says you’re okay,” Eran said with a grin.
Ayra almost smiled. “You speak Grovyle now?”
“I’m fluent in dramatic pauses.”
He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a cloth strip, marked with notches along its edge.
“Want to learn one they didn’t teach in school?”
He showed her the shape: two fingers folded, chest tap, then a reverse motion — a quiet greeting. A personal one.
“I trust you. Do you trust me?”
Ayra mirrored the move. Clumsy, but it felt right.
They practiced it a few more times, and somewhere in that rhythm, Nere echoed it — not exactly, but with a subtle shoulder shift and head tilt that followed the beat.
Ayra caught it. She didn’t say anything — but her grin gave it away.
That night, after the lights were dim and the windows clicked quietly with shifting breeze, she lay on her side, fingers resting lightly against her chest.
One fold. One tap.
"See me. I’m here."
She had nothing to send the signal to yet.
But it still mattered.