Spritzle Dewgleam crawled out from under the red-capped mushroom at dawn, blinking at the field beyond their fire pit. The lavender was gone. Not dead, not wilted in any normal way, but drained. Spritzle had spent weeks fighting this blight, trying salt, sun, and ground brightmoss, and every cure had slipped through their fingers like sugar in rain. They stepped closer, boots crunching on stiff, colorless stems. The whole field stood in pale shades of nothing, petals frozen mid-droop. Overnight. It had taken the oldest field overnight. Spritzle's notebook trembled in their hand. Then they saw it. At the dead center of the gray, something glowed pink and gold. They waded through the brittle rows until they reached it. A single lotus, its petals crystallized with sugar, sat untouched. Color pulsed inside it like a small heart. Around its base, a tiny pink puffball hovered, scattering glitter across the bloom. Spritzle knelt and wrote one careful line: "The blight can be stopped. Something here remembers how."