Chapter 3: Her Bloom Isn’t Red Anymore, It’s Becoming Everything

Chapter 3: 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 E••••• 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 S•••••• 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 its usual chaos — elbows jutting too close, the sour edge of coffee breath hanging in the air, a man shouting at a crumpled poster as if it had personally wronged him.

Aria didn’t flinch when someone’s shoulder slammed into hers, didn’t even stir when a teenager’s overstuffed backpack scraped against her arm, leaving a streak of city dust on her jacket.

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 beneath her feet like a dull warning, metal grinding against metal in a relentless beat. She fixed on her breathing — the slow, deliberate in and out that kept her steady to herself amid the crush of strangers.

Across the aisle, a man barked laughter into his phone, the sharp bursts cutting through the stale air. She didn’t care about the joke, but the sound grated, jagged and intrusive, far 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.

The place required only her time and quiet. Most people barely noticed it was still open; no one came in unless they were searching for something odd, out - of - print, or hard to name. That meant she could 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.

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

Aria grinned, thumbs already moving.

Aria: The books say you still owe them overdue apologies.

Jules: Harsh. But deserved.

Aria: Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me defend myself to the literature police.

She leaned back, letting the screen dim in her hand. The weird tension from the subway crawled back for a moment, but she shook it off.

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 the door open and froze. No chime rang out. That wasn’t right.

Her eyes darted up to the little silver bell above the doorway. It still hung there, swaying slightly from the hook, but it hadn’t made a sound. The air inside felt heavy, almost thick enough to swallow noise.

Inside, the shop was unnervingly still. Shelves stood like silent sentinels, and even the faint hum of the city outside seemed muffled. Too quiet.

“Mrs. Yune?” Aria called, setting her bag down behind the counter. Her voice sounded small, fragile in the oppressive hush.

No answer. That was worse — far stranger than mere silence.

The old woman never missed a shift. Not once. Even on days when staying home would have been sensible, when her bones ached or the weather begged her to rest.

Even on the day of Aria’s interview, when rain hammered the streets in relentless sheets, pooling in gutters and turning sidewalks into slick mirrors, she had been there.

Sitting behind the counter, steam curling from her teacup, as if the storm outside were nothing more than a distant story, incapable of reaching her calm, unwavering presence.

Her mug sat on the desk now. Half full. Cold, the faint ring of dried tea clinging to the rim.

The chair was pushed slightly away, as if its occupant had left in a hurry. A notebook lay open, its page blank and stark against the warm wood.

Aria frowned, a tightening unease tugging at the edges of her stomach. She poured two cups of tea anyway — white jasmine with ginseng, just like always.

One she set carefully at the register, letting the familiar scent curl into the air, hoping the ritual would anchor the moment, make the space feel right again.

It didn’t.

The second cup remained untouched, steam rising in lazy spirals, twisting as if it were searching for something. Or someone. The warmth of the aroma felt lonely, empty, and the silence around her pressed in, thick enough to taste.

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, brushing over worn, faded spines, some crumbling at the edges like dry leaves. One in particular caught her eye.

Legends of the End Times.

She raised an eyebrow. Okay. A little on the nose. Still, curiosity won. She pulled it from the shelf.

The book snapped open as if it had been waiting for her, pages rattling violently in a still, stagnant air. Far too violently.

Most were gone. Torn out. The remaining edges were clean, deliberate — like someone had chosen exactly what to leave behind.

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

She will bloom when all else dies.

Aria froze.

The ink at the edges seemed to weep, dark streaks bleeding outward — not water, not smudged by accident, but as if the page itself had cried. She ran a finger over the words.

Heat pulsed beneath her skin, a faint flicker in her chest. Familiar. Uncomfortable.

She snapped the book shut and tucked it beneath the counter.

Enough weird for one shift.

The rest of the afternoon crawled. Customers trickled in and out like reluctant ghosts, barely anyone stopping long enough to browse.

The low hum of the heater buzzed against the walls, mingling with the occasional groan and creak of pipes older than her apartment building.

Time stretched, slow and sticky, until she finally locked up at six, grabbed her bag, and stepped into the street — just as the rain began to fall again.

Drizzle soaked her hoodie in seconds, chilling her shoulders through the damp fabric. Great.

She tugged the hoodie tighter around her neck and picked up her pace, hands buried deep in her pockets. Each boot sank into puddles murky and brown, the water sloshing with a hollow, coffee - colored plop.

Above her, a billboard flickered erratically. Half the image was scrambled, shifting and jumping like it couldn’t decide what to show. Its light reflected off the wet pavement in jagged shards, fractured like a broken mirror.

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 stuff steals your face.”

Aria grabbed a couple of apples from the wooden crate near the counter, brushing the faint dust off their skins. The fruit looked normal enough — bright red, glossy under the weak light leaking through the store’s flickering bulb.

When she set them down and slid a few bills across the counter, the woman behind the register squinted at her like she’d just made a terrible choice.

“You sure you want the red ones?” the woman asked, her voice rough from years of smoke and gossip. “Girl, nah. Bad week for red. Take the green ones instead.”

Aria paused mid - motion, her hand hovering over the paper bag. “Why?”

The woman leaned forward a little, lowering her voice as if sharing something half - secret, half - curse. “Rot’s been actin’ strange lately.

Looks fine on the outside, but inside?” She tapped one of the apples with a chipped nail. “Boom — spores. I’m tellin’ you, something’s wrong with the soil. Bad energy, maybe worse.”

Aria frowned, glancing at the apple’s glossy surface again. “They look fine to me.”

“That’s what everybody says till they open one,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Happened to my neighbor last night. Whole kitchen smelled like mold and metal. Just… off.”

Aria hesitated, then nodded slowly, switching out the red apples for green. “Guess I’ll take your word for it.”

The woman gave a small, approving grunt. “Smart girl. Green’s safer. For now, anyway.”

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.

The government had been broadcasting calm messages all week: “Temporary maintenance,” “Network upgrades,” “Public safety measures.” Officially, everything was fine.

Everyone was supposed to stay calm. But it was clear the council was in control, moving everything from the shadows. They were playing god, shutting down networks and cutting signals so no one could spread fear, so no one could see the truth.

The city was gradually being quarantined. Roads blocked, checkpoints rising overnight. Drones tracing the streets. No one allowed to leave. No one allowed to enter. Every piece of public information polished and sanitized to hide what was really happening.

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. But it didn’t open normally. The screen shimmered, wavering like water. The text flickered in and out, letters bending and twisting, glowing faint pink before disappearing entirely.

Then her thumbs felt it: the phone vibrated in short, uneven pulses, almost like a heartbeat — too deliberate to be accidental. It slid slightly in her grip as if something inside it were moving, pressing, nudging.

A whisper of static hissed from the speakers, and in that tiny, electrical sound she swore she heard a voice, soft, urgent, teasing, yet full of command.

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

Aria stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. Behind the message, for a flickering moment, she saw her reflection warp — pink hair cascading across the glass like it had a life of its own, eyes glowing faintly.

A pulse ran up her arm from the phone, a shiver of awareness that someone, something, was reaching through the dead network just to touch her, just to warn her.

The pink - haired goddess, bending the static, threading reality through the signals the council had killed.

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 flickered 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.”