Page 88 of She Touched His Vine

The question makes the group hush again—expectant, giggly.

Clara glances at me.

Then back at Lillian.

And she smiles—slow, full of sunlight.

“He grew on me,” she says softly.

A few of the kids giggle.

But Lillian just beams.

“Like moss?” she asks.

Clara winks. “Exactly like moss.”

And Thorn, who never used to show anything, just chuckles low in his chest, and doesn’t deny it.

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