Seraphina Nighthollow had run Anime High for nine years, and in all that time she had refused to look too closely at one memory. Tonight it looked back at her. She sat at her desk, the four club banners hanging on the wall, and she found she could not stop replaying the night she found the owl. She wanted to understand it. That frightened her more than the memory itself. She closed her eyes and let it come. A sound in the dark. Not wind. Something moving in the greenhouse vines. She had crossed the wet stone floor of the conservatory alone, past the hanging herbs and the shelves of jars. The glass walls held her reflection on every side. In the memory she reached the corner where the ivy grew thickest. There he was. An owl, grey and brown, tangled in an old nest. Broken glass lay mixed with the vines around him. His wings were pinned flat. His yellow eyes fixed on her, furious, as if she were the one who had trapped him. She remembered kneeling. She remembered the moment her fingers touched the twisted stems. The ivy loosened. Not because she pulled. She had not pulled yet. The vines simply let go, sliding back like something told to release him. She had told no one this part. She had made herself forget it. Her eyes opened. Vesper sat on his perch across the room, awake, watching her the same way he had watched her that first night. Furious and certain. "You remember it too," she said. "Don't you." Vesper did not blink. He lifted one wing, then settled it. On the floor below his perch lay a single dry ivy leaf. She had swept that floor an hour ago. She was sure of it. Seraphina crossed the room and picked it up. The leaf was the same shape as the vines in the conservatory. Old. Curled. She had not carried it here. No one had come in. She had always told herself the vines fell away by chance. That was the lie she needed to keep working, to keep managing the students, to keep pretending she was only a headmistress. The leaf in her palm ended that. The ivy had answered her hand nine years ago. It was still answering her now. "Someone left before I understood this," she said quietly. The person she had trusted. The one who had known these grounds better than anyone. She had let them go without asking the right questions. Vesper spread his wings and dropped down to her desk. He landed on the closed ledger where she kept school records and pressed one talon against the cover, holding it there. Waiting. Seraphina looked at the leaf, then at the owl. She would not sleep tonight. Tomorrow she would return to the conservatory where it began. Not as the headmistress checking on a club but as someone bent on figuring out if that was really her that made the vines move.

Seraphina climbed the stairs to her office as the sky went grey. The night in the conservatory had proven nothing. She had touched a hundred vines and none had moved. Now she carried a single question up to her quarters. If the ivy answered her hand nine years ago, could she make it answer again? Vesper waited on his perch. Below him sat the moody end table, its teapot wrapped in a wooly cozy, dark ivy trailing down the gothic legs. She had grown that ivy from a cutting she took nine years back. It had never done anything strange. That was the point of keeping it here. It watched her the way she watched herself. She knelt beside the table. She placed her palm above the ivy and thought about the owl, the nest, the vines sliding back. She pictured the stems reaching toward her fingers. Nothing happened. The leaves hung still. She tried again, harder, then softer. She whispered to it. She felt foolish and cold. "It won't come," she said. "I can't make it real if I can't make it move." Vesper dropped from his perch to the arm of the lilac reading chair. He gripped the fuzzy cushion and stared at her. "You are trying," he said. "That is why nothing comes." She sat back. "Then how did it happen before?" "You were not thinking of yourself. You asked if I was hurt." Seraphina looked at the ivy. That first night she had not wanted power. She had wanted the owl free. She closed her eyes and stopped reaching. She thought only of the trapped thing struggling in the dark, and how she had needed to loosen the hold that pinned him. The cold in her chest turned. She felt the wish move outward, not from her mind but from her hands. A soft rustle broke the quiet. She opened her eyes. The ivy had grown. Not a leaf, not an inch. A full arm's length of new green vine spilled from the table and wrapped once around her wrist. The stem was warm. It held her, then loosened on its own and settled across her lap. Seraphina did not move. She stared at the living thing curled over her knees. It had answered. She had felt it leave her, real and warm and hers. "It's real," she said. Her voice shook. "Yes," Vesper said, quiet now. "It always was." She touched the new vine. It was strong, alive, grown in a breath from nothing. This was not chance. This was not a memory she could bury again. She had made a plant grow with a want and a hand. And she understood, with a drop in her stomach, that she had no idea what else her hands could do. No teacher. No book. Only an owl who smelled something wrong in the greenhouse, and a power she could no longer deny. She had to learn what she was before it grew past her control.