Zinnia Freewind stood at the edge of the clearing with empty hands. The elders had just walked past her, carrying her next release batch toward the hive tender's post. She watched them go and did not call out. Inside her chest, a small ache settled in beside a quiet, stubborn hope — that one day they would see her work, and her, and finally nod. She followed at a slow pace and stopped beneath a dome of twisted vines. Bright herbs swayed from its arch. Small jars lined the wooden shelves, ready for new hands. The hive tender did not look up. The elders set her batch on the bench and walked away. Zinnia opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned and went home. Tomorrow, she would show up again. The batch was no longer hers.

Morning came gray and damp. Zinnia walked the path to the clearing with her sleeves still cool from the dew. She expected the usual quiet, the usual jars waiting on the shelf. Instead, she heard voices ahead — unfamiliar, bright, busy. Someone was already at her bench. Zinnia slowed her steps and listened. A young fairy stood at her post. A slatted wooden carrier sat on the bench, packed with fresh moss and stacked jars. The elders watched, nodding. No one turned to Zinnia. No one explained. She waited at the edge until her hands stopped shaking, then set her tools down by the path. She would not beg for her bench back. She walked into the woods alone, empty-handed, to find a release spot of her own.