Chapter 2: Her Bloom Isn’t Red Anymore, It’s Becoming Everything

Chapter 2: Her Bloom Isn’t Red Anymore, It’s Becoming Everything

The world hadn’t ended. Not in the way people expected.

No fire raining from the sky. No angels blowing trumpets. No blood oceans or horsemen galloping down the freeway. Just the same morning gridlock on Easton Avenue, the same white noise of espresso machines screaming in corner cafes, the same looped synth - pop playlist that every shop owner swore was different. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

People still scrolled through headlines like they were swiping through a dating app — war, floods, heatwaves, disappearances, whatever. Blink. Gone. Refresh. Next.

The city didn’t stop.

It groaned and sparked and kept humming like it always had, wrapped in neon and exhaust fumes and that weird mix of human energy and unspoken dread. But underneath it all, buried under the Spotify ads and 5G signals and non - stop construction — something buzzed.

And Aria felt it like an itch just under her skin.

She moved through the streets like she belonged and didn’t at the same time. Headphones in. Hood up. Face unreadable. She blended in the way shadows did — only noticeable if you were really looking.

The subway was the usual chaos. Elbows. Coffee breath. One guy yelling at a poster for reasons only he understood. Aria didn’t flinch when someone jostled her, didn’t even blink when a teenager’s backpack clipped her shoulder. She just shifted her weight, tightened her grip on the overhead rail, and let her fingers slip around the hidden handle of the small blade stitched inside her coat lining. Instinct. Habit. Insurance.

The train’s rhythm clattered underneath her like a dull warning. She focused on her breathing, the steady in - out that kept her grounded. Across the aisle, someone laughed into their phone. She didn’t care about the joke, but the sound grated. Too loud for this early.

Then the window caught her reflection.

Not just her face — her presence.

There she was. Pale grey eyes, same black hoodie from yesterday, scarf still looped lazily around her neck. But something was off. The version of herself staring back felt delayed, like she’d been paused and resumed half a beat too late. Lagging. Watching herself through a screen that couldn’t quite keep up.

She narrowed her eyes at it. The reflection didn’t change. No glitch, no shift. Just… her. Off by a breath.

She turned away.

Her boots hit the platform by 8:32. The air smelled like grease, exhaust, and old gum. Familiar. Grounding. She took the stairs two at a time, tugging her coat tighter as the wind clawed at her sleeves.

Gutter & Spine appeared like always — wedged between the monstera - worshipping plant shop and the vape lounge that claimed to host “poetry raves” on Thursdays. The front windows were dusted over again despite her wiping them yesterday, and the bell above the door jingled like it hadn’t been fixed in years.

She loved it here.

It didn’t ask anything of her except time and quiet. Most people didn’t even realize it was still open. No one came in unless they were looking for something weird, something out-of-print, or something they couldn’t quite name. Which meant she got to exist in the background. Exactly where she liked to be.

“Morning, ghost girl,” Niko called from behind the register, holding a mug the size of his head.

“You’re here early,” Aria said, dropping her bag behind the counter.

He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d organize the philosophy section before it eats someone.”

“Bold of you to assume it hasn’t already.”

They shared a tired grin. She pulled out the stool from under the counter and dropped onto it with a sigh, unwrapping the scarf from her neck and shaking off the subway tension.

Her phone buzzed. Jules.

Survived another shift. Barely. Tell the books I say hi.

Aria smirked, thumbs already moving.

Books say you still owe them overdue apologies.

Rude. But fair.

She leaned back, letting the screen dim in her hand. For a second, the weird tension from the subway returned. That feeling of being slightly out of alignment, like her skin was on a two - second delay. But here, under the soft hum of old lights and surrounded by paper and ink, it eased.

She moved toward the back room, flipping the CLOSED sign even though the door was unlocked. Technically, they didn’t open until ten. Technically, she didn’t care.

Back among the shelves, she let her fingertips drift over cracked spines and dog - eared corners. Each book whispered differently. Some loud, some quiet. Some didn’t whisper at all.

But one — near the middle, in the poetry section no one ever touched — felt warm.

Warmer than it should’ve.

She blinked, reached for it —

Then heard Niko’s voice call out, “Aria? Did you move the display? It looks… weird.”

Of course it does, she thought. Everything looks weird lately.

But she turned anyway.

She pushed open the door and paused.

No chime. That wasn’t right.

She looked up. The little silver bell above the door was still there, still dangling from the hook. But it hadn’t made a sound. Like the air was too thick for noise.

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.

“Mrs. Yune?” Aria called, setting her bag down behind the counter.

No answer. That was weirder.

The old woman never missed a shift. Ever. Even on days she probably should have stayed home. Even on the day of Aria’s interview, when the sky had opened up and flooded half the street, she had been there, sipping tea like the storm couldn’t touch her.

Her mug was on the desk now. Half full. Cold.

The chair pushed slightly out. Notebook open. Blank page.

Aria frowned, unease tugging at the edge of her gut. She poured two cups of tea anyway — white jasmine with ginseng, just like always. Set one down at the register, hoping muscle memory would make everything feel less off.

It didn’t.

The second cup stayed untouched. Steam curling upward like it was looking for something. Or someone.

By eleven, the tea had cooled.

By noon, the porcelain cracked with a sharp snap when she moved it.

Aria muttered, “What the hell…”

She cleaned it up slowly, deliberately. Anything to keep her hands moving. To keep her from thinking about how it felt like the whole bookstore was… holding its breath.

She wandered into the back aisles. The mythology section was a mess — again. Probably some college kid hunting for ancient conspiracies to turn into a thesis.

Her fingers skimmed the titles. Worn, faded, some crumbling at the spine. One caught her eye.

Legends of the End Times.

Okay. A little on the nose. She pulled it out.

The book snapped open like it had been waiting for her.

Pages fluttered violently — way too violently for the still air.

Most were gone. Torn out. Clean edges, not ragged. Deliberate.

Only one page remained. Scrawled in handwriting that wasn’t printed:

She will bloom when all else dies.

Aria stared.

The ink bled at the edges. Not like water damage. Like tears.

She ran her fingers over the words.

Heat pulsed under her skin. A soft flicker in her chest. Familiar. Uncomfortable.

She shoved the book closed and stuck it under the counter.

Enough weird for one shift.

The rest of the afternoon crawled. Barely any customers. Just the low hum of the heater and the occasional groan of pipes older than her apartment building. She finally locked up at six, grabbed her stuff, and stepped into the street just as the rain picked up again.

Drizzle soaked her hoodie in seconds. Great.

Aria tugged it tighter and walked fast, hands shoved deep into her pockets. Her boots splashed through puddles the color of old coffee.

She passed a digital billboard overhead. The screen flickered, half - glitched.

ZONE A: TEMPORARY MONITORING

SYMPTOM HOTLINE: XXX

Nobody looked up. Nobody ever did.

A voice barked prices from a fruit cart nearby. The same vendor as always — a woman in a puff jacket with gold hoops and an AI - linked payment ring.

“Three for five. Cash only. Don’t trust the cloud. That shit steals your face.”

Aria grabbed a couple of apples. As she handed over cash, the woman squinted at her.

“You want the red ones? Girl, nah. Bad week for red. Take green.”

“…Why?”

“Rot’s been weird lately. Stuff looks fine outside, then boom — spores. I’m tellin’ you, bad energy in the soil or something.”

Aria blinked. “Spore apples?”

The woman just shrugged. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

Aria muttered a thanks and walked off. She bit into one apple half a block later.

Regretted it immediately. Soft. Mushy. The inside was black and caved in.

She gagged, spit it out into the gutter, and dumped the rest into the nearest bin.

By the time she reached her building, her hoodie was soaked through and her nerves were frayed. She trudged up five flights, kicked her boots off inside, and froze.

Something felt… off. She closed the door behind her slowly.

The apartment was still. Not quiet — still.

Air too heavy. The smell of something floral.

Faint. Sweet. Wrong. Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf.

The flower was back. No — flowers, plural.

Five of them now.

Each bloom a different color. Crimson. Violet. Cerulean. Pale gold. Ink black.

All curling from different books, petals growing like they’d always belonged there.

Sea Glass Psalms. The Edge of Dusk. Forgotten Bodies. Every book Aria had buried a piece of herself in — every one of them blooming with impossible color. A spectrum of memories. Of lovers.

She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t. Something inside her said don’t. Not because she was scared of plants, but because these weren’t plants. Not really.

They hadn’t wilted. Not even a little.

She turned toward the mirror by the window.

Same antique mirror left by the last tenant. Slightly warped. She’d been meaning to throw it out for months. Every time she got close to doing it, something stopped her.

Tonight, it had a crack. Tiny. Fresh. Like a split in the surface of the world.

She stepped forward. Her reflection blinked half a beat late.

Not enough to prove anything. Enough to feel it. She tilted her head.

The reflection didn’t. She whispered, “Nope.”

The mirror said nothing. Just stared. Not at her. Through her. The air shifted.

Not temperature — pressure. Her ears popped slightly.

And then, like a voice without words, something whispered.

It wasn’t sound. It was a knowing.

She turned back toward the flowers.

The petals curled. Listening. Her knees buckled slightly.

She reached for the arm of the couch and sat down hard.

Her phone. She yanked it out of her pocket. No bars. No Wi - Fi. No message.

Just dead space. Like the city had been unplugged.

She muttered under her breath, “Okay, no. We are not doing this today.”

The mirror watched.

The flowers pulsed — once — like a heartbeat.

She wanted to move. She didn’t.

She whispered, “What are you?”

The flowers didn’t answer. Neither did the mirror.

But the wind outside picked up. Shrieked once across the building like it was clawing at the windows.

Then silence. She stayed there, still, breathing slow.

At some point, her phone buzzed.

She nearly dropped it. One new message.

Jules: You good? Heard Yune’s MIA. Weird stuff in the city?

Aria stared at the screen, thumbs hovering.

She typed:

Aria: I don’t know. Something’s wrong. Something’s coming.

She hit send. Put the phone down. Looked up.

The mirror crack had grown. A web now. Spreading outward like ice.

Her reflection blinked again — delayed.

This time, Aria didn’t blink at all.

The flowers shifted gently, as if reacting to the thought she hadn’t spoken.

The air felt electric.

Alive. Not fear. Not quite. Anticipation.

The whisper came again. This time, it was clear.

One word. Right into her bones.

“Bloom.”