The sky turns a dull gray as the midday light fades. Clouds gather in low, somber layers, swallowing the last streaks of sun over the campus. The air grows still for a moment before a light wind picks up, sending stray leaves skittering over the pavement.

  Mira steps into the mini bus, her hand on the metal frame in the shimmering emerald of her dress, the one she prepared for the Halloween party but didn't have the chance to wear. The fabric of the flowing gown ripples like leaves caught in a gentle breeze, its delicate layers catching the light as she turns. Her wings, though small, are a delicate burst of emerald crystal, with glimmers of tinsel threading through the intricate veins like morning dew on fresh leaves.

  She has carefully styled her hair, allowing the silvery strands to cascade in soft waves around her shoulders, the effect akin to moonlight dancing on water. A fine crystal butterfly adorns her hair, his birthday gift, glinting with every movement. Around her wrists and ankles, vines of silver wire curl, giving her the illusion of having been born from nature itself.

  She turns back to Adrian, who stands on the sidewalk.

  "I'm okay, just go to Hector farm first with Noah and Rent," she says, her voice rising over the low throb of the bus engine.

  Valeria glances at her, then shifts her attention to Adrian with a playful smirk. She leans against the seat handle. "Hey, I'll bring the kids and your girlfriend back safe and sound."

  Mira feels her face heat up, but she keeps her eyes on the equipment piled in the back. Outside, the horizon turns into a soft, gray haze as the atmosphere prepares for the coming rain.

  ?

  The minibus rolls to a stop in front of the community center, its engine purring softly before it comes to a complete halt. The children, who have been eagerly waiting at the sidewalk, can’t contain their excitement any longer. As the doors of the bus open, a chorus of cheers and gasps erupts.

  Mira steps out, radiant in her emerald dress, her butterfly hair ornament sparkling under the morning sun, wings delicately fluttering with each graceful movement. Her costume is every bit the embodiment of a fairy, the soft tinkle of the shimmering tinsel in her hair catching the light, the flowing fabric of her dress making her seem to float as she steps down.

  The children scream with glee, some jumping up and down, others covering their mouths in awe. “She’s a real fairy!” one of them exclaims. “Look! She’s got wings!” another shouts, pointing at the delicate folds of Mira’s wings that shimmer with each slight movement.

  Mira smiles, her heart warming at the sight of their excitement. She straightens her shoulders, adopting her role with complete confidence, and begins to speak in the soft, melodic tone that feels natural for a fairy guiding children on an adventure.

  “Good afternoon, my little adventurers!” she calls out, her voice sweet and full of excitement. “I am your fairy guide for today, and I am so pleased to take you on a grand adventure! Today, we are going to explore the magical forest, a place where mysterious fungi grow, hidden from the world.”

  The children’s faces light up, eyes wide with wonder as they hang on her every word. Mira adds a touch of mystery, a twinkle in her eyes as if she knows the secrets of the universe, sharing in their curiosity.

  “Now, my little adventurers, we’ll head to the bus for a short ride, but before we begin our journey, the fairy needs to make sure all of her visitors are present. So please wait here while I check the list to make sure everyone is ready to embark on today’s grand adventure.”

  With a gentle wave of her hand, Mira turns to the bus and gives the children a reassuring smile, guiding them back toward the vehicle. As Valeria follows inside, her fingers move down the checklist of names, then stop.

  “Mira,” she says, leaning back down from the bus steps. “Zoya isn’t here.”

  Mira looks back to Valeria. “Watch them for me.”

  Then she turns on her heels and makes her way into the community center, her wings rustling gently behind her.

  Ms. Lien, the center’s staff, sits at the desk typing away on her computer. Mira approaches calmly.

  “Ms. Lien, I noticed Zoya isn’t on the bus. Is everything alright?”

  Ms. Lien shakes her head. “Her mother called earlier. Zoya didn’t want to come this morning. She said Zoya was feeling uneasy and refused to leave the house.”

  Mira listens, brows knitting slightly.

  “Her mother thinks the workshop would be good for her,” Ms. Lien continues. “She asked if someone could talk to Zoya, maybe walk her over, if she agrees. We told her we’d check.”

  Mira exhales, already weighing the timing, the bus, the children outside.

  “I’ll go,” she says after a beat.

  Ms. Lien hesitates. “Are you sure? We don’t know what’s bothering her.”

  Mira nods once. “That’s why I should.”

  ?

  Inside a small apartment on the fourth floor of an old building, Zoya sits curled up on the couch, her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them. The morning sun filters through the gauzy curtains, painting soft lines across the living room. She hasn’t dressed yet—still in her long cotton nightshirt with little clouds printed on it. Her mother has tried coaxing her with breakfast, with soft words, with reminders that her friends are going too. But Zoya stays silent, arms around her knees as if holding herself in place.

  On the coffee table, a sketchbook lies open—today’s unfinished drawing in pale graphite lines. A plant inside a jar, wires binding the roots. Her mother sighs from the kitchen, rubbing her temples. “Zoya, sweetheart. You like plants, remember? You were so excited last week.”

  Zoya just shakes her head.

  Then the doorbell rings.

  “Wait here,” her mother murmurs. But when she opens the door, both women freeze.

  There, at the threshold, stands a fairy.

  An emerald dress shimmers like dew on spring leaves, vines coil around her arms and ankles with a gentle sparkle, silver-white hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves. Crystal butterflies nestle in her hair like living magic. The scent that follows her—soft and almost golden—drifts in gently, like crushed osmanthus petals on warm wind.

  Mira smiles. A smile made for children who’ve forgotten what magic feels like.

  “May I come in, madam?” she asks, her voice lifting like a song. “The Fairy Princess is collecting brave adventurers today, and I heard one lives here.”

  Zoya’s mother blinks. “Um…hello Mira…”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Allen.” Mira smiles at her before continuing.

  “Lady Zoya,” Mira says warmly, “we have discovered a secret forest where ancient trees and fungi grow—some that only bloom in the presence of courageous hearts. I have a feeling yours is one of them.”

  Zoya peeks over the couch’s armrest. Her fingers slowly unclench.

  Mira continues, her tone softening, though her eyes never waver. “Your name is already written on the guest scroll. The bus is waiting. The other adventurers are on board. And I…” She leans closer with a small wink, “I came especially to fetch the girl with the strongest imagination.”

  Before stepping back out, Zoya hesitates at the threshold. Mira notices how the girl’s hands tug slightly at the hem of her nightshirt, her small fingers curling around the fabric. Her mother starts to say something, but Mira gives a reassuring nod and crouches beside Zoya again.

  “A fairy can’t take a noble guest on an adventure without her armor,” she says gently, brushing a strand of hair behind Zoya’s ear. “Shall we get you ready?”

  Zoya blinks, uncertain, but doesn’t pull away.

  Her mother leads them into the bedroom, cluttered with books, colored pencils, a few stuffed animals, and more than one sketchbook stacked beside the bed. Mira follows, careful not to overwhelm the space. As the door closes softly behind them, Mira sits beside Zoya on the edge of the bed.

  From the small satchel slung over her shoulder—embroidered with trailing leaves and golden thread—Mira takes out a carefully folded dress, the one Zoya’s mother had pressed into her hands a moment ago. Soft green cotton, light and breathable, with tiny hand-stitched flowers scattered near the hem. Zoya’s eyes widen slightly. It looks like something a forest spirit might wear when she isn’t being seen.

  Mira says with a conspiratorial smile. “For someone who might need to blend into a magical forest.”

  Zoya slowly reaches out, touching the fabric. She is still silent, but after a moment, she nods.

  For the first time that morning, something changes in her eyes.

  “You’re ready,” Mira whispers.

  And hand in hand, they leave the room.

  While Zoya finishes pulling on her small shoes by the doorway, Mira turns to Mrs. Allen.

  “Mrs. Allen, before we go, may I ask for the consent form we gave you last week? For the club activity today.”

  Mrs. Allen nods, moving toward a drawer in the small bookshelf near the kitchen. “Yes, of course. I already signed it. I didn’t think she’d be going at first, but…” She glances toward Zoya, her voice softening. “I think this might be good for her.”

  Mira accepts the form, but before she can say thank you, Mrs. Allen pauses, hesitating slightly. “Mira...”

  Mrs. Allen hesitates, then speaks more carefully. “This workshop… Adrian Vale is involved, isn’t he?”

  The question catches Mira off guard for a fraction of a second. Her brows lift slightly.

  “Yes,” she answers. “He oversees the program.”

  “I’ve seen him on the news,” Mrs. Allen continues.

  Mira stills. “Oh?”

  Mrs. Allen watches Mira’s face for a moment before speaking again.

  “Could you ask him if this is something I should be worried about?”

  Mrs. Allen draws a breath. “I don’t know where to start with this. You know… this isn’t the first time I’ve signed something like this.”

  Mrs. Allen steps back toward the shelf, rifling through a few more papers before pulling out another document, older, slightly creased, its heading marked with the name of the research lab Mira already suspects.

  “They had me sign this months ago,” she says, lowering her voice instinctively. “Said it was for a cognitive development study. Something harmless. I didn’t think much of it, they had logo and license, seemed official.”

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  She hands the copy to Mira, who takes it carefully, "behavioral assessment protocols protocol, non-disclosure, and data may be shared with third parties".

  She explains, “they said it might help children who struggle socially,”

  Mrs. Allen hesitates again, then opens the folder wider.

  “I found these in her room.”

  She places several sheets on the table and smooths them out with her palm.

  “She’s been different lately,” she continues, glancing toward Zoya. “Waking up in the middle of the night. Saying things that don’t make sense. Sometimes she just stares at the wall like she’s listening to something I can’t hear. I keep telling myself it’s just stress or imagination, though something feels off.”

  Mira lowers her gaze to the pages.

  The change in her face is immediate. The bright ease she carries when speaking with children recedes, replaced by a still, attentive focus. Her lips press together slightly as her eyes move across the paper, absorbing more than she shows.

  Mira looks up, and her smile returns, softer though more measured than before. “You did the right thing keeping everything.”

  She gathers the papers neatly into alignment. “Would it be alright if I make copies of both the consent form and these drawings? It helps to keep records consistent.”

  Mrs. Allen blinks, then nods slowly. “Yes, of course. I didn’t know if I should’ve kept it… but something told me to.”

  Mira beams. “You’ve got great instincts. I wish more parents were as thoughtful. You’re doing amazing.”

  Mrs. Allen gives a tired but grateful smile, and Mira leans in just a little, her tone soft and confident. “And don’t worry, really. Adrian is excellent at figuring out complicated things. If anyone can help, it’s him.”

  She gives a little wink, and Mrs. Allen lets out a short laugh, the tension easing from her face.

  “Thanks, Mira. I feel a bit better now.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Mira says gently.

  ?

  Adrian is driving when his phone buzzes again. He ignores it at first, eyes fixed on the road, then reaches over at the red light and taps the screen.

  A message from Mira.

  Mira:

  ?? (attachment)

  Found a research consent form at Zoya’s house—Parent unsure whether this warrants concern. Additional behavioral indicators attached. All the kids are here; we’re heading to the “enchanted forest” now.???♀?

  He opens it.

  His grip tightens on the wheel.

  CognitioneX Biotechnica.

  Adrian’s jaw tightens. CognitioneX, a Genomic Analytics International. subsidiary, is on the Helix list, research halted, human-subject protocols under ban. Yet here it is, hiding beneath an irrelevant project title, pushing a consent that describes one study while intending another. The signatures are real; the premise is not.

  He opens other attachments.

  The early drawings are simple, cheerful. A potted sprout beaming with color, labeled Imagination in looping script—full of energy and curiosity. But by the third page, the tone changes. A vine coils inside a glass bottle, its roots replaced with sharp gears, like something meant to turn, to grind. Then comes the jar. A plant sealed within, its roots tied down with wires. The plant has a face. There’s a circle where its features should be. Or a symbol, a spiral and obsessive, drawn again and again behind the figure like static. A crowd of eyes in the background, some watching, some simply… there. Don’t tell them. It listens when I sleep. They’re watching.

  His grip on the steering wheel tightens, almost imperceptibly.

  And if he’s right… then Zoya is already in phase two.

  The thought settles heavily, though his expression does not change.

  It isn’t guilt that haunts him. It’s the unbearable clarity—of knowing, of seeing, of having the tools and still being forced to stand there, untouched, unscathed, while someone else has already paid the price. That kind of memory doesn’t just fade. It crystallizes. It becomes a vow made in silence, again and again, in every lab, every locked door, every sleepless night building something no one asked for because someone has to.

  And if he ever allows it to happen again, if he ever stands still while someone disappears just beyond reach—then all his logic, all his intelligence, all his effort—will mean nothing.

  He won’t let that happen.

  He pulls over just long enough to type a brief message, then drags the file from his phone and attaches it to the email, addressing it to Dr. Evelyn Hart, Director of the Bioethics Advisory Committee. Then another one to Mira.

  Adrian: Got it. Thanks for letting me know.

  Stay with the kids—I’ll check on it from here.

  The tyres hiss against the wet asphalt as he merges back into the sparse traffic. Adrian grips the steering wheel and accelerates toward the hazy horizon in the gray daylight.

  ?

  The bus rumbles to a stop at the edge of the path, tyres crunching over gravel, the sky above heavy with clouds that press low over the treetops.

  Outside, under the porch of Hector’s farmhouse, the boys are already waiting. Hector stands in the doorway, the lines of his face crinkling into a grin.

  Mira steps down from the bus like a vision from a storybook. Zoya is the first to follow, clutching her small satchel and shyly taking her place by Mira’s side. She doesn’t say much, but her wide, curious eyes stay fixed on Mira—as if her presence alone stitches the real and unreal into something safe.

  Tuan hits the ground next, nearly tripping over his own boots, laughing loud and bright. Mateo follows, already calling out, “Are we going to see the mushroom fairy garden?!” Hana and Chloe cling to each other, wide-eyed, while Faris pauses at the threshold, taking in the big house, the dark sky, the damp scent of earth and woodsmoke.

  “Welcome, little explorers!” Hector’s voice booms warm and low, arms wide as if gathering them all in. “The rain hasn’t come yet, but it’s waiting. The best kind of day for mushrooms.”

  Mira steps down last, the clipboard tucked under her arm. Her voice lifts, bright and clear. “Alright, before we dive in—let’s do a Weather Check!”

  Valeria is already moving through the group, her bag of emotion stones clinking softly as she hands them out. Smooth, warm in the hand, yellow for sun, gray for cloud, blue for drizzle, dark silver for storm. She crouches beside Chloe, showing her how to turn the stone in her palm and say, “Today, I feel like…”

  Mira holds up a stone herself, cloudy gray, flecked with pale blue. “Today, I feel like a soft cloud, waiting. Not quite heavy enough for rain, but close.”

  The kids giggle, their voices bubbling up like a stream breaking over stones. Chloe chooses yellow, “I’m sunshine!”, while Mateo grabs a stormy silver and shouts, “I’m a tornado!” Faris lingers, holding his stone like it might whisper something if he listens long enough.

  As the last stone is shared, the boys and Hector step forward, arms full of raincoats in bright, crinkling colors, floppy hats, and gloves. They move among the kids, fitting sleeves, fastening buttons, tucking hats over ears.

  Mira claps her hands lightly to draw their focus back.

  “Okay, my brave ones,” she says, her voice low and playful, “we’re not just here to sit and sip tea. The sky’s about to open up, and we’re going to be ready for it. ”

  Her eyes sweep the group, curious faces, small hands tugging at sleeves, the air electric with anticipation. Zoya stands so close their skirts nearly touch, occasionally brushing her fingers against Mira’s hand as if to confirm she’s still there.

  “We’re going to step into the drizzle when it comes,” Mira goes on, “and guess what we’ll find? Little friends who only show up when the world gets wet. Mushrooms, waiting in the shadows—wood ear, fairy bonnets, maybe even a melting ink cap or two. They’re shy, but they love the rain.”

  She grins, letting her voice lift like a secret.

  “Is it a little wet? A little messy? Maybe. But is it fun? Is it an adventure?”

  “Yes!” the kids chorus, grinning, shouting now.

  “Is it going to be a little thrilling?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you ready to find the tiny friends waiting just for you?”

  “YES!”

  Their laughter rings bright and bold, bouncing off the eaves of the porch as the first small drops begin to tap—softly, gently—against the wooden planks. The world has been waiting. Now it has begun.

  ?

  When the kids are suited up, raincoats zipped, boots clunking, hats bobbing like bright little flags—Hector straightens, wipes his hands on his trousers, and lifts his voice just enough to gather the moment.

  “Alright, little explorers,” he rumbles, glancing at the soft drizzle beginning to tap-tap-tap against the leaves, “mushrooms don’t grow just anywhere. They’re picky. They have their secret places, and it’s the rain that calls them out. Without rain, the ground stays hard, the air stays dry, and the mushrooms stay asleep underground. But when the rain comes, like today, it wakes them up.”

  He points toward the edge of the woods, where the trees lean close, the ground softening beneath the first touch of rain.

  “You’ll find them where the world stays damp,” he continues, “under logs, at the base of old trees, in the folds where leaves rot down into soil. That’s where the mycelium—the mushroom’s hidden roots, lives all the time, like a net under your feet. When the rain falls, it tells the mycelium, ‘Now’s the time. Grow.’”

  He bends down and picks up a piece of damp bark, turning it over to show the pale threads clinging underneath. “This,” he says, “is how they talk to the rain. The mushrooms listen with their skin. They drink it up, and they bloom.”

  Tuan’s eyes are wide, sparkling. Chloe whispers, “Like the rain calls them out to play.”

  Valeria nods, her voice warm. “Exactly. And that’s why we wear our raincoats and boots, so we can play with them too.”

  Hector takes a step forward, gesturing for the group to follow. “Stick close, little ones. Not every mushroom is safe to pick, and you’ll need sharp eyes to find the good ones.”

  The first soft drops begin to fall, dotting the wooden planks like shy fingerprints. The kids glance up, wide-eyed, as the sound of the drizzle whispers in the air.

  Zoya stands a little apart from the others, her lichen-green raincoat hanging loosely around her small frame, the hood slipping forward whenever she moves. Rain gathers along the seams and beads at the edge before sliding off in slow, silver droplets. She is not reaching eagerly for mushrooms like the rest of the children. Instead, she studies the ground as if waiting for it to move first. One hand twists the fabric at her wrist. The other hovers above the moss without committing to touch.

  The drizzle deepens just enough to darken the bark and sink into the soil. The scent of wet wood and leaves rises through the cool air.

  Mira notices the tightness in Zoya’s shoulders, the way her gaze shifts quickly toward every small rustle. Without drawing attention, she lowers herself beside her.

  “Come here,” she says gently. “Let’s look at that log.”

  A fallen trunk rests nearby, its bark soft and peeling, the surface damp and dark with rain. Moss spreads along its length, and in a shallow split in the wood, a cluster of small mushrooms has begun to form.

  Their caps are smooth and honey-gold, no larger than coins, their stems pale and slender against the rotting wood.

  “Velvet shank,” Mira says softly. “They like the cold.”

  Zoya kneels beside her.

  Her breathing remains shallow.

  Mira reaches for her hand and encloses it in her own. “You can touch,” she says. “Just lightly.”

  Together, they extend toward one of the small caps. Zoya’s fingertip brushes the smooth surface, and at that instant the mushroom shivers almost imperceptibly.

  Then the cap begins to swell.

  The stem lengthens visibly, pushing upward through softened bark as though the wood itself is breathing.

  Zoya gasps.

  Another cap rises beside it.

  Then another.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  The sound is soft and round, like damp cork released from glass. The cluster thickens, amber caps unfolding in succession.

  Zoya startles and loses her balance, slipping backward onto the damp leaves. She lands on her hips, eyes wide, hands braced behind her as the mushrooms continue to rise.

  More caps press upward near her boots. Pale stems break through moss at her side. Where her fingers rest against the soil, small rounded buds push gently against her skin before opening into tiny golden domes between her knuckles.

  She stares at them, rain gathering along her lashes.

  A shout erupts from behind.

  “Woaaaaaaa!”

  Laughter bursts through the drizzle.

  “Look at this! An army of mushrooms!”

  Noah moves calmly through the excited cluster, crouching to secure Hana’s loose boot while Ren rolls back Faris’s sleeves so they stop dragging in the mud.

  Hector straightens from where he has been sorting the baskets and turns toward the fallen log. For a second, he simply blinks. The damp wood that had looked almost bare earlier now carries clusters of honey-colored caps pushing up through moss and bark as if they had always been there.

  “Since when were those there?” he mutters.

  Then he huffs a small laugh and shakes his head. “Right. Rain. That’s what I get for underestimating autumn.”

  Mira glances back only briefly to make sure no one tramples the new growth, then returns her attention to Zoya.

  The mushrooms have stopped expanding. They stand in neat clusters now, their caps holding droplets of rain like small polished stones.

  Zoya’s lips part as she stares at the cluster rising around her hands, then at Mira, rain trembling along her lashes.

  “This… this is… magic.”

  Zoya’s voice trembles.

  Mira forces a smile. She does not know whether she should feel happy or scared. The mushrooms burst up too suddenly, too fast. Was it because of her? The thought unsettles her, especially since she does not feel excited or overwhelmed at all. There is no rush, no thrill, nothing that usually comes with her strange moments.

  She turns slowly, looking for Adrian. She hopes he has seen it, hopes he will have some explanation for why this happened.

  But he is nowhere to be found.

  Mira lets out a small breath and lifts her expression into something brighter.

  “Well then, Lady Zoya,” she says with playful solemnity, placing a hand over her heart, “would you kindly help this forest fairy gather the royal mushrooms before they grow legs and wander off?”

  Zoya nods and reaches forward again, more carefully this time.

  Mira rises, brushing damp leaves from her skirt, and walks toward Ren, who is crouched beside Chloe, adjusting the strap of her basket.

  “Ren, have you seen Adrian?”

  Ren looks up. “Oh. He’s inside. Said he had something to take care of and would keep up later.”

  Mira turns toward Hector’s house.

  Through the rain-dotted glass door, she sees Adrian’s silhouette near the frame, phone pressed to his ear, one hand resting in his pocket with his fingers curled deep inside as if gripping something unseen.

  Even from this distance, his face looks serious.

  Mira watches him for a moment, rain sliding down her hood, and wonders whether this has something to do with Zoya.

  ?