From a water-stained notebook found wedged between floor tiles:
“Day 17. The thorns drank the bleach again. Watched the liquid slide down its ridges like syrup. Afterwards, the air smelled of salt and lightning. Maria says we’re mad to feed it, but what is cleaning if not deciding what stays?”
“Day 23. Left a dead mouse today. Gone in minutes. New bud appeared. Looks like an eye. Notices when we approach. Maria won’t enter that wing anymore. I still do. Someone has to.”
The paper was worn. The writer’s name had been scratched out. Only the initial L remained. It had been carved with care into the book.