“Nobody knows the real map of Florendelle,” Nelo says. “But I’ve got most of it.”
She lifts a golden pod from her rim, and pops it open. Inside: a scrap of vine, a bead, a single thorn.
“Clues,” she grins. “Every pod holds one. One day I’ll piece it together.”
People call her foolish. The rooftops don’t have borders, they say. Gardens just...grow!
But last week, she found a marked stone beneath the elder trellis.
And tonight, she’s heading east, pod in hand.
Because some maps don’t show up until you’re already walking them.