Tiny Mira blinks and rubs her eyes, holding onto a fragile hope that the world has righted itself while she slept. She slowly sits up.
A beam of morning light filters through the large window, warming the air. Outside, the red maples sway gently in the breeze. Inside, everything is still enormous, but the space feels bright and strangely safe.
Adrian is sitting on the cushion right next to where she is resting, reading something. He is already dressed in his usual white shirt and suit, looking sharp and prepared for anything—whether a board meeting or a surprise crisis.
Hearing her stir, he glances down.
“We still have time,” he says, his voice low and calm. “You could rest a bit more.”
Mira lightly shakes her head. “No, I’ve slept enough.”
She looks up at him. “Now tell me what you promised earlier.”
She catches the surprise in his eyes. He likely didn't expect her to hold onto that thread—or to pull it tight the moment she woke up.
Adrian clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Clara... your mother... was the first person to mention the Celestial Bloom to me when I was nine years old, at an international conference.”
Mira stares at him, trying to process the information as if she is waking up into a second dream. “Wait, are you telling me you met my mother? And she was the one who told you about the myth?”
Adrian leans back against the window frame. “You are half right. She just mentioned it in passing, but I followed the lead. That research is what led me to Vermillion.”
He pauses, watching her. “Maybe you should ask Clara if she knows anything.”
Mira’s mind races. Why was Clara searching for this? She feels unmoored, completely in the dark about her own history. Should she keep this a secret? Or should she call her mother and demand the truth?
Besides, something about Adrian’s explanation feels… smoothed over.
"Wait,” Mira narrows her eyes. “If that’s true—then what about Vermillion? You didn’t just stay there to read fairy tales, did you?”
Adrian slowly closes the heavy, leather-bound book. He remains seated on the bench, reaching out to encircle her tiny waist with his hands. Effortlessly, he lifts her to the wide wooden windowsill, bringing her to his eye level.
"Vermillion reaches a thousand years of age this December, recorded as the oldest university in the world. The Veilwood forest encircles us is a vast ancient woodland, classified as a national restricted zone. It harbors stable microclimates, holding thousand-year-old 'hub trees' connected by extensive fungal networks." He pauses, then exales, “and you, in your sleep, stepped right into that forest, in the most critical moment of the planet.”
Mira blinks, looking utterly lost.
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
Adrian studies her confused expression, then softens his tone.
"Do you know plants communicate with each other by transmitting bio-electrical signals through the soil and underground fungi network, known as the Mycorrhizal Network or the Wood Wide Web?"
He continues.
“Under specific conditions, a high bio-energy surge stimulates them, triggering rapid growth and instant healing. The earth within the Veilwood and Vermillion holds a specific magnetic energy, which amplify the communication, make the plants grow and heal faster. I confirmed this through comparative tests between the Rare Plant Greenhouse here and Quillan's Greenhouse, and the results were always the same, with the plants at Vermillion showing consistently better growth and faster healing.”
He pauses, looking almost lost in thought as the implication settles.
"In science, every biological system operates on a frequency. It suggests that perhaps you didn't sleepwalk. Your bio-electric signature appears to match the forest's resonance, so when the network surged during that critical moment, your body reacted to the pull, simply syncing with the signal."
Mira flops back against the window frame, her shoulders dropping. It seems he has led her from one myth straight into another, leaving her completely lost in the transition.
"Are you saying," she asks, rubbing her temples, "that I also have bio-electric energy like a plant?"
"Every human functions as an electrical system," he answers. "Your heart beats because of a rhythmic electrical pulse. Your brain transmits thoughts and commands across a neural network using the same energy."
He gestures vaguely to his own arm.
"It drives our recovery as well. When you sustain a cut, the skin generates a localized electrical field at the injury site, known as the 'current of injury.' This charge acts as a beacon, guiding new cells toward the wound and instructing them to close the breach."
Mira listens, looking down at her own hands, trying to imagine the invisible currents he claims are running through her.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"Okay," she says slowly, trying to piece the logic together. "So we both run on electricity. But..." She looks up, frowning slightly. "How are they actually alike? And how are they different? I mean, I'm not a tree."
Adrian answers with the seriousness of a lecture, looking directly at her.
"The fundamental language is identical. Both systems rely on voltage created by ions—calcium, potassium, chloride—moving across cell membranes. When a neuron fires in your brain, it creates an 'action potential,' a spike of voltage. Plants generate this exact same electrical spike to signal danger or growth."
He taps the wooden sill to emphasize the structure.
"The difference lies in the architecture and the speed. You possess a specialized nervous system designed for velocity; your signals move in milliseconds to allow for instant movement. Plants lack nerves. Instead, they use their vascular tissue—the phloem—to transmit these signals. It is a slower, hydraulic process, taking seconds or minutes rather than milliseconds."
He pauses, bringing the point home.
"However, because the electrical code itself is universal, it is theoretically possible for a human system to resonate with a botanical one, provided the frequencies align."
Mira lets out a long breath, finally seeing the pattern.
"So, that's why," she says, looking at him. "You are both brain scientist and biologist, bioalchemist, whatsoever the list... and your mysterious participation in the Rare Plant Club, at Quillan Greenhouse and Vector Mushroom Farm?"
Adrian nods once.
"Neuroscience maps the human electrical system; phytobiology maps the forest network. I needed to see how two distinct biological systems could speak the same electrical language."
"And the result is?" Mira asks, leaning in. She seems more invested in his mystery than her own problem.
Adrian reaches out, tapping his finger lightly against her forehead.
"It led me to you," he says, watching her reaction. "I am not sure if this is a result or another question."
“The University Mushroom Center was overrun by rapid growth last night,” he says calmly. “There is an emergency faculty meeting this morning to assess the situation.”
Mira looks at him. “Will you attend?”
“No. I already know the cause, so there is no need.”
He checks his watch, unbothered by the chaos he is describing. “The Bloom released a strong bioenergetic surge that triggered the sudden growth of nearby fungi. Once we isolated the source here, the Center stabilized. The Vale is sending experts to investigate the phenomenon, but they won't find anything.”
“From this point forward,” he says, “caution isn't enough. We need to run full diagnostics on all your devices—phone, laptop, everything to make sure there is no malware or spyware tracking you without your consent.”
“You became a target the moment you aligned yourself with me. But your situation right now is critical. If any people find out about this condition, you will become a rare research specimen. We cannot let this happen.”
He leans in slightly. “We won’t exchange anything related to this matter via phone messages or email. I’ll give you a special communication device once we figure out how to turn you back. Until then, you stay with me.”
Mira’s stomach sinks a little.
“Like... I’ll go with you to your lab? To meetings? Work?”
Adrian looks at her. “Or do you want to stay home alone in this tiny shape?”
Mira shakes her head hard, the fear immediate. The idea of being left alone in this enormous world is terrifying. But... going everywhere with him? Living in his pocket, being with him every second of the day?
That doesn't sound right either.
Then, suddenly Adrian lifts the glasses case off the table.
“What are you doing?” Mira asks, grabbing the edge of the velvet lining to keep her balance.
“You need a bath before class,” Adrian says simply, carrying her toward the bathroom.
Heat rushes to Mira’s face. It feels unfair that he can be this intuitive about her needs while being so mortifyingly direct.
Inside the bathroom, the case settles onto the cool marble counter. A clean teacup is chosen from a shelf, and soon water flows over Adrian's wrist as he tests the temperature, adjusting the tap until the warmth is perfect—hot enough to be soothing, but safe for her size.
“My body wash is too harsh for your skin right now,” he says, placing the steaming cup next to her like a personal spa tub. “We will go shopping after class to pick up some backup supplies, since we can't always stay in your dorm room.”
That line hits her harder than the reality of her size.
We can't always stay in your dorm room.
Does he realize how... domestic that sounds? The calm, practical tone—as if they are discussing logistics instead of cohabitation—makes her heart hammer against her ribs.
Sinking into the warm water feels like salvation. The heat soaks into her muscles, washing away every ounce of tension. Floating in the ceramic curve of the teacup, wrapped in steam, she feels completely at peace.
After a while, she steps out onto the plush hand towel Adrian prepared. The bathroom air touches her damp skin, causing an immediate shiver. Then she sees it.
A fresh garment sits on the marble counter. It is a chic, high-necked dress made from soft charcoal cashmere, clearly cut from the cuff of a high-quality sweater.
She pulls it over her head. The material is incredibly soft, trapping her body heat immediately. The natural elasticity of the sweater cuff hugs her frame comfortably, creating a modern, form-fitting silhouette that falls elegantly to her knees. He even cut the armholes with careful symmetry, turning the sleeve into a sophisticated turtleneck tunic.
She looks in the mirror, feeling a flush of heat that has nothing to do with the steam. It is frustrating. A part of her still remembers that look in his eyes earlier—the sharp, electric excitement of discovering her in this form. Yet a moment later, he switched to being completely calm and helpful.
She doesn't know what she is to him now. Is she a test subject he has been searching for all this time? Or just a new pet?
A few minutes later, she finds herself sitting on the table, settled into a soft nest of warm wool he prepared, letting him dry her hair.
“Wouldn't the hair dryer be faster?” she asks, her voice muffled slightly by the towel.
“Absolutely not,” he says, continuing the gentle, rhythmic motion. “At your current mass, that would be a Category 5 hurricane. You’d go flying across the room.”
His fingers are enormous against her skull, but his touch is incredibly precise, massaging the water out without pulling a single strand.
Mira sits still, eyes closed, leaning into the warmth of his hands. It feels good—soothing and safe. She realizes that between the cashmere dress, the towel, and his hands, she is completely enveloped in his scent—cedarwood and rain.
But as his thumb gently rubs behind her ear to catch a stray drop, the thought returns unbidden:
This is exactly how you dry a small animal.
She stiffens slightly. The line between being cared for and being kept is getting blurrier by the minute.