Fenrir knelt at the edge of his garden and pressed his palm into the soil. It felt cold. Dead. The stone path curved through the raised beds exactly as he'd planned, and the north wall blocked the wind just right. But something else was growing at the border now — thick green moss spreading from the forest, creeping toward his stones. He'd seen moss like this before, clinging to the old footbridge deeper in the woods where water ran underneath and things actually lived. That bridge was older than him, maybe older than his mother, and the moss had claimed every surface except where feet still walked. Here in his garden, nothing walked. Nothing fed. He'd built the path but never spoken to it, never set out water the way his mother had. The moss was moving faster than he'd expected — by morning it would reach the first stone. He stood and went inside for a bowl, his hands shaking slightly. When he came back out, he poured water at the edge of the beds, then at the base of the wall, then along the path where his stones still showed clean and gray. He didn't say anything. But he stayed there until the moon rose, watching the water sink into the ground.