Sonder wandered down the winding garden path, her eyes flying over flowers and plants of all kinds and colors.

Each of them more vibrant than she had ever seen on any wild flower in her life.

Even the trees seemed stronger and with more life than the ones on the outside.

She wondered if the vines that twisted around them, though delicately, had something to do with them. They, themselves, were also blooming with light pink pedals.

The further she walked, the more intense the garden became.

If Sonder were a plant, she’d be more than happy to settle down here.

They went into a small grove where clusters of flowers burst even from the walls and ceiling, everything being covered no matter where one looked.

Tiny bees and fireflies and butterflies flew around, every so often landing on a flower.

The buzzing of the bees and the glow of the fireflies bring a nice tranquility to the place.

Sonder knelt down beside a patch of especially violet blossoms, captured by the velvety texture of their petals.

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Without even thinking about it, she reached out and gently plucked out one of the flowers, wanting to examine it more closely and feel it in her hand.

She held it up so that light shone on it more clearly, marveling at the way its color seemed to deepen under her touch.

But almost immediately, a strange sensation swept over her.

The garden around her fell into an eerily stillness, as though it were holding its breath.

The glow of the fireflies stopped, as did the buzzing of the bees. Even the colors of the plants seemed to fade.

Sonder’s fingers went slack, and she stared down at the flower in her, a pant of regret growing in her chest.

She hadn’t intended to harm the garden; she just wanted to admire the beauty of the flower. She was so lost in the moment that she had forgotten that even just plucking a flower could tantamount to murder in nature.

As she lowered her hand, a rustle sound came from the surrounding foliage.

The rustling grew loud, and in seconds, the once-gentle vines and blossoms around her twisted and coiled, transforming into something more menacing.

Thorned tendrils began to snake toward her, ready to strike.

The flower she had admired just moments before now seemed to glare at her, and its once-beautiful petals were wilting and curling, dying right in her hands.

Sonder took a step back, but the vines followed, moving faster than she could retreat.

One of the tendrils shot out, wrapping tightly around her ankle.

She gasped as the dull sensation of pain yanked her off balance, and more vines swarmed around her, winding around her wrists and legs like living rope.

She struggled, but with each moment, the vines tightened their hold, thorns pricking her skin.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” she said as she struggled, the strength she gained in Simeria helping her stand her ground.

Though the vines did not relent.