Every night, the walls shifted a little more. Ysolde marked the changes with charcoal, tracing new cracks and the gentle curling of plaster like the opening of pale blossoms. The air had grown warm and damp, smelling faintly of moss and running fresh water, though the city outside knew nothing of either.

At first, she thought the loneliness was playing tricks on her. But then a pulse came, steady and low. It was a subtle vibration felt underfoot, like a heartbeat. Then the wallpaper rippled. When she touched it, the surface quivered beneath her palm.

Ysolde once hated this room, its narrow windows, its tired bulb, the single wooden chair that scraped against the cold tile. One night, she whispered a wish to live somewhere alive.

Now the chair had grown into roots. The light hummed like cicadas in late summer. The walls folded inward, soft and perfumed, encasing her in warmth and humming darkness. She lay still, heart slowing to match the rhythm around her.

By morning, a lush garden had taken her place.