Rosemary stood at the edge of the farm plots at dawn, staring at the blackened stems that had been green the night before. The blight had taken everything. She pressed her fingers into the soil and found it cold, lifeless. The commune would need food within days, and she had nothing left to cook. She walked east until she reached the weeping willow that marked the boundary. Its branches hung like curtains, swaying in the wind, casting shadows that made others turn back. Past it lay the ridge where the root grew—the one she'd never tasted but knew would save them. She'd stayed behind before, believing the commune needed her here. But now staying meant watching them starve. She ducked beneath the hanging branches and kept walking.

The ridge rose ahead like a wall. Rosemary's legs ached from the climb through the woods, but she didn't stop until she reached the top. Two paths split before her, one winding north through dense undergrowth, the other cutting south along exposed rock. She studied both routes. The northern path looked safer, sheltered by trees, but it twisted and turned out of sight. The southern route ran straight but narrow, hugging the cliff edge. She checked the sun—already past noon. If she chose wrong, darkness would catch her before she found the root. She closed her eyes and thought of the flavor she'd never tasted but somehow knew: earthy and bright, with a warmth that spread slowly. The northern path felt too easy, the kind others would have chosen. The ones who turned back. She stepped onto the southern route, gripping the rock face as loose stones scattered beneath her feet. An hour later, the path opened onto a steep slope. Below, nestled between two ancient trees, pale tendrils glowed against the dark soil. The root. She'd chosen right, but now she had to climb down before the light failed.