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The lavender bloomed three weeks later.
Isaac noticed it first thing in the morning. He had barely stepped through the greenhouse door before he stopped, one hand still curled around the strap of his bag. Pale purple flowers had opened along the stems of the plant he'd repotted weeks ago, small and delicate against the sea of green surrounding it.
For a moment, Isaac simply stared. Then a smile tugged at his mouth. "Huh."
He crossed the greenhouse and crouched beside the clay pot, running his fingers carefully along one of the stems. "Look at you."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Isaac glanced toward the greenhouse door.
"Don't get cocky," he muttered to the lavender. "River already thinks I talk to you."
The lavender, thankfully, kept its opinion to itself. Isaac smiled anyway. He had been spending more time in the greenhouse lately. Deaton had technically given him permission months ago, though permission might have been too generous a word for it.
Isaac had started by reorganizing a shelf. Then he'd repotted three dying herbs. Then he'd noticed the drainage around the eastern wall was terrible. After that, somehow, an entire corner of the greenhouse had become his.
Deaton never complained. Actually, Deaton barely commented on it at all. He simply started leaving bags of soil where Isaac could find them. There were worse ways to encourage someone.
Isaac set his backpack beneath the workbench and began his morning routine. He checked the seedlings first, running a finger over the soil to test the moisture before deciding whether they needed water. The rosemary was doing well. The basil had gotten dramatic overnight and was drooping despite having perfectly damp soil.
"You're fine," Isaac informed it.
He moved on. The mint was attempting another hostile takeover of its planter. "Absolutely not." He pinched back several wandering stems.
The tomatoes needed to be tied higher against their supports. One of the ferns had a yellowing frond that needed trimming. The thyme—
Isaac stopped.
One of the small thyme plants was dead. Completely dead. Brown leaves curled against brittle stems, the soil around it dry despite the others in the tray looking perfectly healthy.
Isaac frowned. He touched one of the leaves. It crumbled beneath his fingertip. Something inside his chest tightened. It was ridiculous. It was a plant. One tiny thyme plant among dozens of others.
Plants died.
Sometimes they didn't transplant well. Sometimes their roots were weak. Sometimes fungus spread before anyone noticed. Sometimes they simply didn't make it. Isaac knew that. He'd learned that.
Still, his fingers curled against the edge of the tray. "What did I do?"
The greenhouse didn't answer. Isaac lifted the little pot and inspected it. The soil wasn't overly wet. There weren't any obvious signs of pests. The roots...
He tipped the plant carefully into his palm. Barely any roots. The ones it did have were dark and fragile.
Isaac swallowed. "I should've noticed."
"You probably couldn't have."
Isaac flinched. River stood in the doorway. They had gotten better at announcing themselves since Isaac had nearly put a trowel through the wall two months ago when they'd appeared behind him without warning. Apparently today was a relapse.
"Jesus, River."
"Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm a little sorry."
Isaac gave them a look. River smiled and walked farther inside, carrying two bottles of water and a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like the bakery down the street.
Their gaze dropped to the dead thyme plant in Isaac's hand. "Oh."
Isaac looked back down. "I killed it."
River's eyebrows pulled together. "Did you?"
"It was fine yesterday."
"Okay."
"And now it's dead."
"That doesn't mean you killed it."
"I was taking care of it."
River set the bag and bottles on the workbench. They didn't immediately tell him he was being ridiculous. Isaac appreciated that about them. River rarely tried to talk him out of feeling something. Instead, they stepped beside him and looked at the tiny plant. "What happened?"
"I don't know."
Isaac turned the root ball carefully. "The roots never developed properly. Maybe transplant shock. Maybe root rot before I got it. Maybe I watered it wrong. Maybe—"
"Isaac."
He stopped. River gently touched his wrist. "Maybe it just died."
Isaac's jaw tightened. "I know."
River studied him. Isaac hated that look sometimes. Not because it was pity. River never looked at him with pity. It was worse. Understanding. They saw him. Even when he desperately wanted to hide.
Isaac set the dead plant on the workbench. "It's stupid."
"No."
"It's thyme."
"Yes."
"I have twelve more."
"Eleven."
Isaac looked at them. River's mouth twitched. "Sorry. Bad timing."
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "You're terrible."
"I've been told."
"By me."
"Frequently."
Isaac shook his head, but the knot in his chest loosened slightly. River leaned against the workbench. "Why does it bother you?"
"It doesn't."
"Okay."
Isaac frowned. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Agree with me when you obviously don't believe me."
River shrugged. "You said it doesn't bother you."
"It doesn't."
"Okay."
"River."
Their smile was maddeningly patient. Isaac looked away. Sunlight poured through the greenhouse glass, warming his shoulders. Somewhere above them, the misting system clicked softly.
"I don't like things dying when I'm supposed to be taking care of them."
River's expression softened. Isaac stared down at the dirt beneath his fingernails. "I know that's stupid."
"It's not."
"It is."
"It isn't."
Isaac exhaled sharply. "It's a plant."
River reached over and picked up the dead thyme. "Then why are you upset?"
Isaac didn't answer. He didn't need to. Because it wasn't really about the thyme. It almost never was. There had been a time when Isaac thought surviving meant enduring whatever happened to him.
Keep quiet. Don't make things worse. Don't draw attention. Learn the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Learn which floorboards creaked. Learn when to speak and when silence was safer. Learn how small you could make yourself.
Then he'd become a werewolf and, somehow, survival had gotten louder. Claws. Blood. Hunters. Alphas. Running. Fighting. Losing people.
For a long time, Isaac had thought healing would be loud too. Some grand moment when everything stopped hurting. When the past suddenly didn't matter. When he'd wake up one morning and be different.
Better. Fixed.
It hadn't happened that way. Instead, healing had apparently looked like this. Dirt under his fingernails. A greenhouse that smelled like rain. Lavender blooming in a clay pot.
And occasionally being irrationally devastated by thyme.
River set the dead plant down. "You know what I think?"
Isaac sighed. "I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"I think you like plants because they let you take care of something."
Isaac went still.
River continued quietly. "And they don't make you afraid of doing it wrong."
He looked at them.
"They tell you what they need," River said. "Not with words, but they tell you. Too much sun, they wilt. Not enough water, they droop. Bad soil, they struggle. And when something's wrong, you can usually do something about it."
Isaac swallowed. River brushed some soil from the back of his hand.
"But sometimes you can't."
Isaac looked down at the thyme. "No."
"And that doesn't mean you failed."
His throat tightened. River didn't push. They simply stood beside him. Isaac eventually picked up the little plant again. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
River considered the question. "Compost?"
Isaac stared at them. "What?"
"That's cold."
River blinked. "It's literally how gardens work."
"My plant dies and you're immediately suggesting we feed its corpse to the others."
"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."
"It is bad."
River laughed. Isaac tried not to and failed.
"Fine," he muttered.
They carried the thyme outside. Behind the greenhouse, Isaac had started a compost pile with Deaton's approval. Fallen leaves, grass clippings, vegetable scraps, dead flowers. Things that had reached the end of one purpose and could become something useful again. Isaac crouched beside it. He hesitated. River crouched next to him. "You don't have to."
Isaac looked at the brittle little plant. Then he placed it onto the pile. He covered it with a handful of dried leaves. "That's depressing."
River tilted their head. "I don't think so."
"No?"
"No." They picked up a handful of dark compost from the finished side of the bin and let it crumble between their fingers. "That becomes this."
Isaac watched the soil fall.
"And this grows something else."
He stared at it. River smiled faintly. "Nothing in a garden really disappears."
Isaac was quiet. "Very philosophical for someone who suggested feeding my dead thyme to its siblings."
River bumped their shoulder against his. Isaac bumped them back. They returned to the greenhouse a few minutes later.
River finally opened the bakery bag, revealing two blueberry muffins. Isaac immediately reached for one. River slapped his hand. "Wash."
"I'm a werewolf."
"You're covered in compost."
"I heal."
"That's not how hygiene works."
Isaac rolled his eyes but went to the utility sink. By the time he came back, River had wandered toward the far corner of the greenhouse. His corner.nIsaac slowed. River stood before the lavender.
It had grown considerably since they'd sat by the river weeks earlier. The stems were taller, fuller, and dotted with purple blooms.
River glanced over their shoulder. "It bloomed."
Isaac tried to sound casual. "Yeah."
River smiled. "You told it it would."
"I told it it'd have more room."
"And that it should stop strangling itself."
Isaac groaned. "You remember that?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Because it sounded like advice you should probably take."
Isaac stopped. River turned back toward the lavender. "Sometimes you keep holding onto things because they kept you alive once."
Isaac's smile faded. River touched one of the purple flowers. "But roots aren't supposed to stay tangled forever."
Isaac stared at them. There were days River said things that made him wonder whether selkies had some secret supernatural ability to reach directly into someone's chest and poke whatever hurt most. "You're comparing me to lavender."
"Yes."
"That's insulting."
"It's a very nice lavender."
Isaac walked over. He stood beside River, shoulder brushing theirs. The plant really was beautiful.
Three weeks ago, its roots had been twisted around themselves so tightly that Isaac had needed to carefully tease them apart with his fingers. He remembered worrying he'd hurt it. Some roots had torn. A few leaves had fallen.
For several days afterward, the plant had drooped. Isaac had been convinced he'd ruined it. Then one morning it had straightened and a new growth appeared.
And now—
Flowers. Isaac touched one gently. "I thought I'd killed this one too."
River looked at him.
"When I repotted it," Isaac explained. "It looked terrible for almost a week."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"What did you do?"
Isaac shrugged. "Kept watering it. Made sure it got enough light. Left it alone."
River smiled. Isaac narrowed his eyes. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I genuinely wasn't."
"Your face was."
"My face doesn't talk."
"Your face never shuts up."
River laughed. Isaac smiled and looked back at the lavender. He understood what River meant, though.
Healing wasn't always looking better. Sometimes it looked worse first. Sometimes changing meant disturbing everything that had become familiar. Sometimes roots had to be pulled apart. Sometimes things broke. Sometimes parts of you didn't survive the transition.
But that didn't mean the whole thing was dying. Isaac looked around his garden. His garden. He hadn't really called it that before.
There were herbs lining the shelves, vegetables growing beneath the brightest windows, flowers arranged wherever he'd found room. Some plants were medicinal for Deaton. Others had absolutely no practical purpose beyond Isaac liking them.
He liked that. Not everything needed a purpose. Maybe that was something else he was learning. Isaac picked up one of the empty clay pots. River watched him. "What are you doing?"
"Planting another thyme."
Their eyebrows lifted.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"River."
They smiled.
Isaac pointed toward the bags stacked beside the wall. "Grab me the potting soil."
River obeyed. They worked together. Isaac filled the pot halfway before taking one of the remaining thyme seedlings from its tray. He loosened the roots carefully, checking them before lowering the plant into its new home.
Healthy, white and strong. He added more soil around it. River watched his hands.
"You know," they said, "I think this place suits you."
Isaac pressed the soil gently around the stem. "Because I'm dirty?"
"Because you're patient."
He snorted.
"I'm serious."
"That's your first mistake."
River ignored him. "You notice things."
Isaac looked up.
"You notice when something needs more room. You notice when something needs water. You notice when something needs to be moved into the shade."
Their voice softened. "And you're learning that not everything struggling is your fault."
Isaac's hands stopped. For once, he didn't make a joke. Didn't pretend the words hadn't landed somewhere deep. Instead, he looked around the greenhouse. At the lavender. The stubborn mint and the dramatic basil. The seedlings stretching toward sunlight. The empty space where the dead thyme had been and then he looked at the new plant beneath his hands. "I think I'm learning."
River smiled. Isaac reached for the watering can. He poured slowly, watching the soil darken. Not too much. Just enough. River leaned against his shoulder. Isaac rested his head against theirs.
Outside, the river continued winding through the preserve, carrying stories from places neither of them had ever seen.
Inside, the garden grew. Quietly and slowly. Without demanding anyone notice.
Isaac looked down at the tiny thyme plant. "You're gonna be fine."
River made a tiny sound beside him. Isaac's eyes narrowed. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"Nope."
"River."
"I'm just glad we've finally admitted you talk to them."
Isaac groaned. River burst out laughing, and despite himself, Isaac joined them.
The sound filled the greenhouse, mixing with the quiet hiss of the misters and the rustling leaves. And somewhere between the river outside and the roots beneath his hands, Isaac realized something.
Maybe healing wasn't becoming the person he'd been before everything happened. Maybe there was no going back. Maybe healing was simply being given enough room to grow into someone new.
Roots untangled. New soil. Enough water and light...and time.
Lots and lots of time.