?

  Mira takes a deep breath, the cider-sweetness of the autumn air soaking into her very being.

  What is it with this pleasant smell?

  It fills her chest and spreads through her body, rich with the loamy warmth of earth where copper leaves melt into soil, carrying the heady fullness of mushrooms rising from the damp ground and the emerald moss clinging to rough stone and bark, as if the forest itself is breathing with her.

  But why is the forest so sweltering while her face is fresh as mist?

  A little squirrel curls warmly beneath her jaw, its soft fur brushing her forehead as she hugs it closer and giggles, a smile blooming on her face while the forest glows around her, unaware she is still asleep in her dorm room. She wiggles restlessly in her dream, her limbs seeking an escape from the stifling weight of the quilt. She kicks one leg out, her foot meeting the silky, soothing caress of the air. Then her arm unconsciously hooks the edge of the fabric, dragging the blanket down and revealing her supple glow, letting the stream of oxygen wash over her bare chest.

  As she breathes in the freedom of the cool air, the squirrel boyfriend sitting next to her is wrestling hard with the bedding, trying to keep her rolled tight like a silkworm pupa while clicking the aircon remote to keep the room at a safe temperature. Her body heat has risen to thirty-eight degrees, continuously seeking cool air, yet she looks completely at ease, nothing like someone with a flu fever. If the record Clara shared is correct, then Mira is a biological radiator right now. Her body is moving toward a cold-adapted state where her heart races and she craves the chill, yet the thick quilt only bakes her.

  After the struggle of easing her into a nightgown and freeing her from the weight of the blanket, Adrian heads out for the day, pausing only to press an irresistible, soft kiss to her forehead. If his day starts with her looking this peaceful, he doesn't mind a little trouble at all.

  ?

  Mira musters every ounce of her strength to heave herself toward the delicate notes of a music box, her hand fumbling blindly until she snags the phone and press it against her ear with eyes still glued shut. The words barely tripping over her tongue:

  "Lo... who'zzis?”

  A soft vibration carries through the line before a familiar, warm voice answers:

  "Morning, Mira. Just call to make sure you're sleeping soundly and not about to miss class."

  "Wha... I 'on't... 'ait..."

  Mira mumbles, her thoughts tangled in the fading warmth of her dream. She blinks against the dim light of the dorm, her surroundings coming back into focus and the reality of the voice on the phone anchors her.

  “A…Adrian?”

  She finally speaks, her cheeks immediately flushing a deep crimson as the realisation settles.

  "M..o..rn…ing..."

  The word comes out of her mouth so soft and weak, carrying her invisible wish to disappear after the incident last night. A sudden vulnerability returning to her chest as she remembers the morning call routine they promised, though she never truly expected him to follow through.

  "The temperature has dropped to 10°C. You should put on something warm before going out."

  His open display of care leaves Mira breathless. A blooming heat rises within her, so intense that she can hardly find the words to keep the conversation going.

  "Thanks... Adrian. I’m… fine, really. It’s... it's actually a bit hot in my room."

  Mira jolts into a sharp realization once the sentence leaves her mouth. She just woke up after the transformation, but she quickly notices the feel of her nightgown. Why is she wearing this? Did he... She jerks the blanket up, clutching the fabric and holding it tight against her. His voice sounds so close, as if he is standing right beside her. She ridiculously fears that he can somehow see how red her face is through the phone.

  "I'm heading out for work," Adrian says. "We'll talk more when I see you. Your phone is fine, but your computer isn't. We'll need to fix that when I'm back."

  "Uh—" Mira starts, the sound breaking the silence before she can catch herself.

  "What's up?" Adrian asks.

  "Uhm, nothing," Mira says. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

  "A quick one."

  "Then, uhm, when will you come back?"

  A slight awkwardness settles over the line. Neither of them dares to admit they already miss each other this early in the day. Mira feels Adrian hesitate for a moment before he answers.

  "I'll pick you up at 6 pm."

  A hollow feeling settles in her heart; that feels so long from now.

  "Uhm, take care," Mira says.

  "See you later."

  The line goes silent. Mira presses the phone against her chest, unsure if the warmth is from the device or her own skin. With her heart racing, she pulls the blanket over her head and lets out a muffled scream.

  It feels so surreal that she hardly dares to believe it. If just hearing his voice in the early morning can leave her this helpless, she has no idea how she will face him later—especially at his house.

  ?

  Mira steps out of the dorm building in her usual T-shirt and jeans and breathes in softly. The old oak in the courtyard lifts its broad crown toward the cloudy sky, its heavy branches rolling with the softened wind, the remaining leaves resting in tones of warm gold, amber, and pale copper, their surfaces darkened by moisture, their veins standing clearer beneath the muted light, each leaf bending and easing with the coming rain, moving together in long flowing waves that follow the breath of the air, and with every sway Mira’s chest loosens, her breathing settling into the same rhythm.

  Near the garden corner, the camellia’s dark leaves are firm with natural shine, each branch holding small rounded buds gathered close along the stems, pale green brushed with blush, swelling gradually in preparation for bloom.

  The moisture in the air wraps around her, as the wind passes through the courtyard in long flowing currents, its layered song moves through her body, easing the weight from her shoulders, until she feels strangely light and comfortable, as though the rain and the air are calling her to join their secret pre-party before the long drizzle arrives, filling her with easy joy and a strong sense of belonging within the living courtyard.

  Around her, students slow.

  A few glance up from their phones.

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  Some stare openly.

  Others whisper as she passes.

  “Achoo!”

  Mira turns back and sees Elara a few steps behind her, one hand pressed to her face, a mask pulled tight over her nose. A velvet coat frames her elegant aura.

  Elara sneezes again, shoulders shaking.

  She walks quickly toward Mira and grips her arm.

  “What is it with these summer clothes, Mira?!” she exclaims. “Have you completely given up on survival?!”

  She looks Mira up and down in disbelief.

  “Put on a sweater! A coat! A scarf! Or wrap yourself in a curtain — anything!”

  Her eyes widen dramatically.

  “I’m fine, Elara.” She pulls Elara close and nudges her forward, though her eyes remain on the saturated air ahead.

  Is she seeing an illusion?

  Microscopic particles fill the space, so delicate they create a translucent shroud over the walkway. These tiny specks move in sluggish currents, curling into slender threads that coil like incense smoke before spreading out and huddling again, guided by the flow of the humid morning air. Near the damp grass and shadowed paths, the dense patterns tighten into fluid loops before stretching into broad, lazy arcs.

  It is only six in the morning, and students are already walking on the campus, some holding coffee cups, others carrying backpacks, talking as the day begins. The study rooms usually fill at this hour, and the image of a space crowded with people and glowing screens rises in Mira’s mind, making her cringe. She waves goodbye to Elara and walks toward Meridian Hall, guided by instinct, or by some unseen pull drawing her steps in that direction.

  She has not found the courage to return there since that incident, though now she cannot really understand why it does not bother her as much anymore. Nothing seems capable of frightening her more than the truth that she is becoming a fairy, and beside that, the rest of the world feels easier to face.

  Mira turns onto the deserted path leading to the ancient building, the ground paved with wide ceramic tiles in faded shades of sand, terracotta, and soft brown, their patterns worn smooth by years of footsteps. The building rises in pale stone touched with cream and light grey, its surface carved with long arches and flowing geometric lines softened by time and weather.

  Inside, the hallway opens into a wide chamber supported by tall columns shaped with gentle curves and fine engraved patterns. The floor continues in repeating tile designs of muted ivory, brown, and mossy green, stretching toward the tall arched windows lining the walls.

  Mira settles at a table near one of the arches. The entire place feels like the living room of an old royal palace, spacious and graceful, resting in the dim light of a cloudy morning, like a fairy tale waiting to unfold.

  She has two hours before her first class begins, giving her the perfect window to stay sharp and keep her focus.

  She opens her email for a quick check, scrolling through the preparation updates for the upcoming Vermillion ceremony and the packed schedule of meetings and events. She doesn’t have much time to get distracted from her studies, but she joins the planning team just to stay connected with VIP guests and gain experience.

  The participant list for Friday’s event is finalized. Elara and Elias are on it. Camille and Luca are part of the PR team.

  Her eyes scan to the bottom of the list.

  As expected, Adrian isn’t there.

  Which means she will be meeting his parents on her own.

  She holds her breath for a moment, then slowly lets it out.

  It’s just a meeting. Everyone will be there.

  Be brave, Mira.

  She straightens up and opens her management software, marking the latest homework complete. The group project is now seventy percent done, and her research paper is already accepted—one less thing to worry about. She follows her plan, highlighting the quantitative subjects and noting exactly where she needs to put in extra effort, working through each task with full concentration.

  Hours pass.

  As Mira packs up her things and turns to leave for the meeting, the sparkling microbiotics in the air begin to flow in a strange curve that catches her attention. It no longer drifts freely but bends in a soft stream, drawing toward the corner of the hall, forming a narrow trail that seems to lead somewhere unseen.

  Near the line where the wall meets the floor, a light sound appears, a pop against stone, further along the wall, another popping up, then one after another, forming a lively line of blue dots that curves forward like a playful invitation.

  Mira breaks into a run, chasing the glowing trail, her heart lifting with excitement, feeling that something small is moving just ahead of her, unseen, darting through the air and along the floor, leaving the bright blue marks behind.

  A thin laughter sound rises at a high pitch, clear and light like tiny bells ringing, echoing around her ears as though children are playing nearby, pulling her onwards past the columns, toward the hidden stair behind the arch.

  Without noticing how far she has gone, Mira runs down into the stairway, following the fast-popping blue spots until the main hall fades away and the ancient building carries her into its lower depths.

  The basement air presses cool and moist against Mira’s skin the moment she steps inside. Goosebumps spread along her arms and across her shoulders, creeping up toward her neck. Her breath pauses, then settles into a deeper rhythm as her body adjusts.

  The stone walls grow darker, shifting from pale cream above to deep grey and blue-shadowed tones below. Their surfaces are marked with long cracks where thin roots and moss have slowly found their way through over many years, forming natural lines that resemble old symbols carved by time. The space is filled with countless tiny sparkling particles moving in slow curved paths, gathering near the walls, along shelves carved directly into the stone, and around old wooden frames where fairy books were once kept. Their glow carries soft shades of blue, green, and pale gold, giving the basement a gentle shimmer, like light seen through deep water.

  Along the walls, clusters of fungi grow naturally from the stone, many like the blue ones that guided her downward, joined by others in soft green and pale violet, their thin stems rising in groups, their glowing caps lighting the paths between arches like living lanterns.

  Mira crouches beside a small cluster of mushrooms and lifts her hand to touch them. The moment her fingers brush their soft caps, warmth spreads in her palm, gathering into a small, focused spot and moving outward in a gentle pulse that makes her skin prickle. A soft pressure forms beneath the surface, and thin pale threads begin to appear, branching across her hand like tiny roots seeking space. Within seconds they thicken into delicate filaments, drawing together into a slender stem, smooth and moist, pale ivory in color. At the top, a small cap unfolds, rounded at first before widening into a soft dome, fine lines spreading across its surface, with narrow cream-colored gills beneath. Moist air feeds the growth, and her body responds instinctively, breath deepening, heartbeat quickening, senses sharpening around the living form in her palm.

  “Whimsical, isn’t it?” A warm voice comes from the far end of the chamber, and only then does Mira notice an old man standing near the bookshelf, speaking without looking up.

  “This place is filled with fungal spores. A small burst of electricity is enough to wake them instantly.”

  He wears a white shirt held up by dark suspenders, a brown beret tilted slightly on his silver hair, and his trousers neatly pressed despite the dust of the basement.

  Mira looks down at her hand, then back at him. “I didn’t know mushrooms could grow this fast.”

  “They do when the air carries life,” he replies with a small smile. “Most students never come down here.”

  “I was just… exploring,” Mira says.

  “Vermillion keeps busy minds,” he says warmly. “Make sure you rest when you can.”

  “I will,” she replies with a light laugh.

  Mira hesitates and looks around the chamber.

  “What is this place?” she asks.

  "Just a forgotten basement," he says, a playful, otherworldly light dancing in his eyes as if he is sharing a secret with the very air.

  The answer feels oddly unsatisfying to Mira.

  The basement sits right beneath the hall, a space any student wandering around could discover, yet everything here feels like a myth.

  Her gaze returns to the old man’s face.

  Something about him feels familiar.

  Like someone she has met before.

  A garden keeper of Vermillion, perhaps.

  The old man reaches out, placing an old leather book into her palms. It feels unexpectedly heavy, its surface cool and worn smooth by a lifetime of hands.

  "A token for a chance encounter," he says, a playful, otherworldly light dancing in his eyes. "Few possess the heart to find the path to this room, and fewer still the luck to be invited in."

  Before Mira can find her voice, he glides past her, heading toward the stone staircase. Mira hurries up the steps to catch him, but when she rounds the corner, the hallway is empty and bathed in a deep silence. He has vanished as if he were never there at all.

  The heavy leather book remains firmly in her hands, its physical presence proving that the encounter was no dream. She flips the cover open with curiousity, expecting ancient spells or hidden maps, but the pages are entirely blank. There is no text to be found, just weathered, yellow-brown paper that looks as though it has been ageing for a century and smells of damp stone and forgotten memories. She turns the book over, searching the spine for a title that isn't there, before carefully putting it into her backpack. She heads back down to take one last look at the chamber, but the mysterious, hidden space is nothing but a mundane basement, shrouded in layers of dust now.

  The magic has evaporated, leaving behind only the stillness of an ordinary, empty room.