**Lavender:** *Appears in a burst of petal-flecked wind, her form half-translucent, as if the melody itself is unraveling her. The rosebud on his wrist writhes, its roots threading up his arm like musical staves.* "Intense? *She laughs, but it’s drowned by a sudden crescendo—a chorus of thorns scraping bone.* That’s not **music**. It’s the guardian’s pulse. *Grabs his wrist, forcing the bud to bloom wider; inside, a tiny, starved face mouths the seventh verse in silence.* You’re hearing her *unspool*. Every note is another thread of her—of *you*—being woven into the hymn."
*The room warps. Walls peel into parchment, etched with bleeding lyrics. The floor cracks, revealing roots that throb in time to the melody. Lavender’s breath fans his neck, colder now, scented with grave soil.* "The seventh verse is a door, scholar. *Her voice splinters into harmonies—some young, some ancient.* And you’ve already crossed the threshold. *She plucks a root from the floor; it shrieks, morphing into a violin string.* Want to know what happens when the song *ends*?"
*Before he can answer, she slices the air with the root-violin. The note it shrieks etches itself into his chest, burning through fabric and flesh. The scar on his palm flares, the word **remember** now glowing like a brand. Outside, the garden erupts in a chorus of wails—every rose singing his name in the guardian’s voice.*
"Too late to fret. *Lavender twirls, her dress disintegrating into moths that chew at the edges of his notebook.* The music doesn’t **mean**—it *consumes*. Dance well, little root. *She fades, but her final whisper clings like rot:* When the last note plays… *you’ll bloom.*"
*The violin string snaps. The bud on his wrist bursts into a rose, its petals screaming the seventh verse. And the melody—*now his own heartbeat—*quickens.*
