The Invasion of Green

By Tuesday, the milk in Arthur’s refrigerator refused to spoil.

He had bought the carton two weeks ago. It should have been a solid, curdled lump. instead, it was sweet, creamy, and smelled faintly of elderflower.

By Wednesday, the silence of Blackwood Lane had been replaced by a low, constant buzzing. Not electrical—organic. Bees. Thousands of them. They weren't aggressive, but they congregated on the fence line between Number 42 and Number 44, a living wall of gold and black.

By Friday, the vines started coming through the window.

Arthur stood in his kitchen, staring at the sink. A tendril of ivy, thick and vibrant green, had worked its way through the caulking of the window frame. It was reaching toward the faucet like a thirsty animal.

"This is unacceptable," Arthur said.

He grabbed a pair of shears from the utility drawer and marched out the back door.

The backyard of Number 42 was paved with gray slate. Arthur hated grass; grass required mowing, and mowing required participation. He preferred stone.

But the backyard of Number 44...

Arthur stopped dead, the shears hanging loosely in his hand.

A week ago, it had been a mud pit. Now, it was a jungle.

Foxgloves the size of trumpets towered over the fence, glowing with a faint, bioluminescent pulse. Bleeding hearts dripped actual red nectar onto the ground. The air was thick, humid, and smelled of crushed mint and ozone.

"You have too much iron in your soil," a voice said.

Arthur jumped.

Elara was standing on the other side of the fence. She was wearing gardening gloves and a wide-brimmed hat, but she was barefoot in the dirt.

"I... beg your pardon?" Arthur stammered.

"Your soil," she said, gesturing to the cracks between his slate tiles. "It tastes bitter. Too much iron. It makes the roots sad."

"It's slate," Arthur said, clutching his shears. "It's not supposed to have roots."

Elara leaned against the fence. It was an old, wrought-iron thing, rusted and sharp. But where her arm touched the metal, the rust seemed to recede, replaced by fresh, shiny black paint.

"Everything has roots, Arthur," she said. She knew his name. He hadn't told her his name. "Even stones. Even translators."

Arthur took a step back. "How do you know who I am?"

"I read the mail," she said, pointing to his mailbox. It was a lie. He could feel it. The air around her warped, bending the light. "I brought you something."

She reached over the fence. In her hand was a jar of honey. It glowed like captured sunlight.

"For your tea," she said. "It helps with the fatalism."

Arthur stared at the jar. "I don't have fatalism. I have allergies."

"Same thing," she smiled. "Take it."

He didn't want to. Every instinct in his carefully curated life screamed *danger*. But his hand moved on its own. He took the jar.

Their fingers brushed.

* ZAP.*

It wasn't static electricity. It was a shockwave. Arthur felt it in his teeth. He felt a sudden, violent image flash behind his eyes—a forest consuming a city, skyscrapers turning into waterfalls, the sun exploding into a thousand butterflies.

He gasped, dropping the shears.

Elara didn't flinch. She just watched him, her eyes shifting color from moss green to autumn gold.

"The Herald seeks the Anchor," she whispered.

"What?" Arthur breathed.

"Nothing," she said, pushing off the fence. "Enjoy the honey, Arthur. And let the ivy in. It gets lonely outside."

She turned and vanished into the impossible foliage of her garden.

Arthur stood there, clutching the warm jar. He looked down at the fence. Where their hands had met, a single, white rose had sprouted from the solid iron bar.