Sproutling

“I’ve only ever pitied the Sproutling. They wander as though searching for a voice they once knew—a master gardener, perhaps, or a memory that refuses to return. When they turn toward you, their vines tighten around their bones, as if bracing to flee or fight… they can never decide which. They watch from behind tree roots, curious but terrified of their own shadow. Still, the faint glow in their chest warms when you speak softly. I think they remember kindness, even if they fear it.”