The Constellation Garden

  Where do lost things go? Do they travel or stay in one place? Do lost things find each other? Are they truly lost?

   Marlyn Linnea Aster pondered this first question as she searched her Garden for something, for what felt like the umpteenth time. Every day something seemed to be missing. It was a hair tie one time. Another time it was a watering can. Other times it might be a trowel, a seed packet, or one single glove. This time it was a worn pencil that she used to mark plant labels. 

  After having scoured the Garden for the missing pencil, Marlyn sighed and activated the comm on her wristwatch. "VERA, perform a scan please."

  VERA (Virtual Environmental Research Assistant) responded, "Last visual confirmation: 14:32, near the basil. Current location: unknown. That's three items this week, Marlyn—the hair tie, the watering can, now the pencil. Either you're developing a concerning pattern of absentmindedness, or the garden is eating your belongings. I've reviewed the footage twice. There's nothing. No explanation."

  "Shoot. Thank you, VERA."

  Marlyn shook her head and went into the space station. She had moved to the Space Station to pursue her research. No one believed her theory, and almost wouldn't fund her research. Extremophile Botany - studying how plants adapt and survive in extreme conditions.The research station was a modest, utilitarian outpost 17 light-years from Earth - functional rather than grand. It had a central hub with living quarters, labs, and a hydroponics bay. The architecture was practical, with curved corridors and reinforced viewports that framed the alien star system outside.

  The lighting was soft and adjustable to mimic Earth's day-night cycles, though the view beyond was composed of unfamiliar constellations. The Garden itself was Marlyn's domain - a carefully controlled environment of grow lights and climate sensors, where she cultivated her extremophile specimens. It was both laboratory and sanctuary, filled with the quiet hum of life support systems and the earthy smell of growing things.

   VERA monitored everything, her presence felt through ambient displays and the occasional dry observation. The station was isolated, and small enough that Marlyn knew every corner, every sound, every rhythm. With VERA, she was never alone, but the absence of human presence made it feel a bit lonely. 

  Marlyn stepped through the airlock into the station's main corridor, the garden's humid warmth giving way to the cooler, recycled air of the living quarters. She made her way to the small galley, pulling a protein bar from the supply cabinet—ration pack 47-B from the last shipment, three months ago now. The next delivery wasn't due for another six weeks.

  She ate mechanically, reviewing her notes on her tablet. Today's tasks: check the moisture levels in the Arctic moss samples, document the progress of the high-salinity tomatoes, analyze yesterday's data on the desert succulents' root development. Routine. Predictable. Exactly what she needed.

  "VERA, how are the environmental readings?"

   "All systems nominal. Oxygen production up 2% from the moss beds. The basil is thriving—perhaps too well. You may want to harvest before it bolts."

  The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "Noted," Marlyn said, "I'll do that after I finish the tomato documentation."

  She returned to the Garden, tablet in hand, and settled into the familiar rhythm of her work. Measure, record, observe. The tomatoes were adapting beautifully to the saline solution, their roots growing thicker, more resilient. She photographed them from three angles, made notes about leaf coloration, checked the pH levels.

   It was in the third row, near the basil that VERA had mentioned as the last known location of her pencil, that she saw it. A small, smooth stone. Pale blue-grey, shot through with veins of silver. Sitting directly on the top of a large rock, as if someone had placed it there deliberately.

  Marlyn froze.

  She knew that this stone couldn't have come from this planet. The geology here was composed far differently. None of the other stones she had seen here so far was even remotely the same color or composition. She knew it couldn't have come from the last shipment. She had carefully cataloged and stored all inventory. 

  For a moment she just stared in awe, perplexed and astonished all at once. Slowly, tentatively, her hand shaking slightly, she reached for it. The stone was cool against her palm, smooth and round, as if it had been tumbled by water for years. Real. Solid. Undeniably there.

  "VERA," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Scan this, please."

   A soft chime as VERA's sensors engaged. "Composition: sedimentary rock, likely limestone. Age: approximately 340 million years, give or take. Origin..." A pause. "Unknown. It doesn't match any geological samples in the database from this system. Or any system within 20 light-years."

   Marlyn turned the stone over in her hand, watching the silver veins glitter and shine as they reflected off of the grow lights. Her scientist's mind cataloged possibilities: contamination from Earth, somehow missed in inventory. A meteorite fragment. Some natural process she didn't understand yet.

  But none of those explanations felt right.

  Someone had placed this here. In her garden. In the third row, near the basil.

 Right where her pencil had gone missing.

 

 The Merchant stood in the Garden, watching the silhouette, a shadow, of the woman picking up his gift. He wished he could see more, but all he could see were glimpses and shadows. He couldn't see her facial expressions to know whether she liked the gift or not. He could only hope.

  The rest of the Garden was as clear as day, its roots firmly planted in his dimension. Knowing the ins and outs of dimensional travel and how the Crossing functioned, he knew that the Garden was also in her dimension, its roots entwining where the Veil was thin. 

  This particular Garden had caught his attention a couple of days ago, as he was exploring this planet. Its plants were vibrant, and it's green tones contrasted beautifully with its surroundings. Flowers and herbs grew here in abundance. The plants were all flourishing.

  He could tell that someone was taking care of them. In his travels, he'd seen countless worlds- some beautiful, some strange- but few held such concentrated life. Few felt so carefully tended, so loved.

  He'd been traveling alone for so long that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to want to stay somewhere. But this garden—and whoever tended it with such devotion—made him want to linger. Made him want to be seen.

  In all his travels between worlds, the Merchant had learned to pass through without leaving traces. But something about this garden, about the careful hands that nurtured it, made him want to reach back. To say: I see you. I see what you've made here.

    Leaving the stone was a risk. But watching the garden day after day, seeing the devotion in every leaf and stem, he couldn't help himself. Someone who cared for growing things with such tenderness deserved to know they weren't alone, and so he'd chosen a stone from his last Crossing—smooth, ancient, beautiful—and left it where she would find it.

 

 Marlyn wasn't sure what to make of it. Her scientific mind tried to rationalize this phenomenon. Contamination from Earth, somehow overlooked during inventory? A fragment carried in on her own clothing from... where? She hadn't left the station in months, and it was a little too big to go unnoticed. A natural occurrence she didn't understand yet—some quirk of this planet's geology that deposited stones in gardens?

  None of it made sense.

   She turned the stone over again, feeling its weight, the coolness of it against her palm. Real. Undeniably real.

  "VERA, start a new log file. Title it... Observation Log, Anomalous Objects."

  "Creating file now. Shall I include today's scan data?"

  "Yes. Everything." Marlyn carried the stone to her workstation, setting it carefully on the desk. She pulled up a blank entry form and began typing.

OBSERVATION LOG - ANOMALOUS OBJECTS

Station Day 247

ITEM 01

Location: Garden, third row, near basil

Description: Sedimentary stone, pale blue-grey with silver veining. Smooth, water-tumbled. Approximately 340 million years old.

Origin: Unknown. No match in geological database for this system or any within 20 light-years.

Notes: Found in exact location where pencil went missing two days prior. No explanation for presence.

Status: Retained for further observation.

  She saved the entry and sat back, staring at the stone.

  Someone had left this here. In her garden.

  The question was: why?

  She remained watchful of that particular spot in the Garden. Between her work she would find herself glancing over, or searching the Garden for any sign of another person. The next day, it happened again. 

  There, in the exact spot she'd found the stone, lay a pressed flower. It was beautiful. Something like a rose but not. Something sort of like a cross between a rose and a carnation. Even the shade was odd. On what planet were there blue flowers? It was nothing like she'd ever seen. 

  At first she was hesitant to touch it. What if it was toxic? She asked VERA to analyze its composition. It didn't seem to be poisonous. Carefully, Marlyn picked up the flower and carried it into the space station. She set it gently next to the stone, and started a new computer log

ITEM 02

Date found: Station Day 248

Location: Garden, third row, near basil (same location as Item 01)

Description: Pressed flower, approximately 8cm diameter. Morphology similar to Rosa and Dianthus species, but distinct. Petals: blue (unprecedented in Earth flora). Preservation method unknown—appears recently pressed but shows no degradation.

Toxicity: VERA analysis negative for known toxins.

Origin: Unknown. No match in botanical database.

Notes: Found exactly 24 hours after Item 01, same location. Pattern suggests intentional placement. By whom? How?

Status: Retained. Monitoring location daily.

  Marlyn leaned back, staring at the flower and the stone sitting side by side on her desk. Two impossible things. Two days in a row. Same spot.

  This wasn't random. Someone was leaving these for her. This was actually happening.

  She sat a moment longer, looking at the items before her, then decided that she had to get back to work, and tried to push the worry from her mind. She went into the hydroponics bay, and carefully took a sapling from its water bound cradle. She carried it out into the garden.

   Surrounded by a dome, with a roof hundreds of meters high, the garden provided ample space for plants of all sizes, even trees. She carried the sapling to a spot she had chosen specially near the Garden 's center, where the dome ceiling was highest. 

  It took very little time, but she was precise and careful about digging the hole and burying the sapling's roots in the simulated earth. She gave it a drink, so that the soil wouldn't be too dry. The planting process took very little time, but she knew it would take many years for this small tree to reach its full height. Marlyn smiled as she imagined the towering oak, branches spread wide.

  That night she dreamed of the tree in it's full glory, light streaming through the leaves.

 

  The next day Marlyn went back near the basil plants, at the same time she had previously discovered the pressed flower. She wasn't sure if she would find something, and yet she almost expected it. When she saw what sat there on the stone, the world seemed to tilt.

  It was a small carving of a tree. It was extremely detailed with leaves and branches, and roots twisting at its base. The bark on the small trunk was rough to the touch. Her breath caught.

  A tree. She'd planted a tree yesterday. Right here, in this garden. And now—

  Someone had been watching. Someone had seen her.

  Not just seen her presence, but seen what she did here. The care she took. The hope she planted in the soil.

  Looking closely she could tell the wood used for the carving was like nothing from this world. She sat on the stone and held the tree in her hands. Her eyes couldn't leave it. The wood was silvery-white with a faint inner glow, like it held light within it. Smooth and cool to the touch, almost like polished stone. It had visible growth rings in alternating colors - amber, deep green, russet - like it grew under a different sun with different seasons.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat as she felt it tighten, and tears came to her eyes. She realized in that moment how long it had been since anyone watched her work with interest. The loneliness she'd been pushing down for so long suddenly surfaced. But it wasn't just tears of sadness that blurred her vision.

   It was mixed with wonder - this impossible, beautiful thing in her hands. Maybe even hope - that she wasn't as alone as she thought she was. One tear slipped out. Then two. She wiped them away and looked closely at the treasure within her grasp. Not of gold or precious metals, or the rarity of the wood, but something more.

  She decided that a response was necessary. She found some paper and a pen, and sat down to write. At first she wasn't sure of what she should say. She finally decided to keep it simple and put pen to paper.

  Marlyn folded the paper carefully, took it out to the garden, to the stone near the basil, put in something extra, and left it there where the other items had appeared.

 

 The Merchant had learned long ago not to hope for too much.

  Hope was dangerous when you traveled alone, when every world was temporary, when connection meant risk. But as he stepped through the Veil into the garden—his garden now, he'd started thinking of it—he couldn't help the flutter of anticipation in his chest.

   Would she leave the carving where he'd placed it? Would she take it inside? Would she understand what he'd been trying to say?

   He moved quietly through the rows of green, breathing in the rich scent of growing things. The garden was empty, as it usually was at this hour. She must be inside the station, working or sleeping or—

  He stopped.

  There, on the stone where he'd left the carved tree, sat something new.

  His heart kicked hard against his ribs. He approached slowly, hardly daring to believe it. A folded piece of paper, crisp and white against the grey stone. She'd left something. She'd responded.

    His hands trembled slightly as he picked it up. The paper was real, solid, warm from sitting in the artificial sunlight. He unfolded it carefully.

  Something slipped out—a small packet, labeled in neat handwriting. Seeds. She'd given him seeds.

   He stared at them for a long moment, then looked down at the note.

  The words were simple. Direct. Perfect.

  "Thank you. I see you too. I'm here and I'm listening."

   The Merchant read it once. Twice. Three times, as if the words might disappear if he looked away.

  'I see you too.'

  He sat down on the stone—their stone now—and pressed the note against his chest, closing his eyes. His throat felt tight. When was the last time someone had seen him? Not the merchant, the traveler, the stranger passing through. But him. The person who carved trees and left gifts and hoped, despite everything, that someone might reach back.

  She had. She'd reached back.

  He looked down at the seed packet in his hand, turning it over to read the label. Earth seeds. From her world, her garden, her careful hands. An offering. A beginning.

  "I'm here too," he whispered to the empty garden. "I'm listening too."

   For the first time in longer than he could remember, the Merchant smiled—a real smile, unguarded and full of wonder—and carefully tucked the note and seeds into his coat pocket.

 

  Marlyn approached the spot the next day, uncertain what—if anything—she would find. She hadn't expected another written response, not so soon.

   But there it was: folded paper on the stone, different in quality and texture than what she used at the research station. Somewhat yellowed and discolored, almost cloth-like. She unfolded it carefully to discover a different seed packet inside—a gift she would examine more closely later. What intrigued her more at this moment were the words on the page.

  "My name is Arden. Thank you for the seeds. I've left some for you as well. I hope they grow in your garden."

   'Arden'. She traced the name with her eyes, testing the sound of it in her mind. It felt grounded somehow, soft like soil—like the garden itself.

 

   The days that followed became a rhythm of anticipation and discovery.

   Marlyn would leave seeds from Earth's rarest flowers, carefully labeled in her neat handwriting. Arden would leave pressed blooms from worlds she'd never seen—petals that shimmered like oil on water, leaves that hummed softly when touched. With each gift came a note, and with each note, they learned more about each other.

    She told him about the research station, about VERA's dry humor, about the loneliness of being seventeen light-years from anyone who understood her work. He told her about traveling between dimensions, about tea shops that existed in the spaces between worlds, about how exhausting it was to always be passing through and never staying.

   But it was the gifts that told the deeper truths.

   When Marlyn held the small glass vial of silver sand he'd left, she could feel it—the memory woven into the grains. A beach at twilight under three moons. The sound of waves that sang in harmonics. The bittersweet ache of beauty witnessed alone. She sat in her garden with tears in her eyes, understanding his loneliness in a way words could never convey.

    When Arden opened the small cloth pouch she'd left, he found soil from her garden—rich and dark and smelling of growth. The moment he touched it, he felt her hands in the earth, the quiet joy of coaxing life from seeds, the hope she planted with every root. He understood then what the garden meant to her. Not just work. Refuge. The closest thing to home she'd had. And she was offering him part of it.

   They were sharing more than objects. They were sharing themselves.

 

   Arden's Tea Shop existed in the Fold Between Dimensions—a small, warm space that smelled of bergamot and cardamom, with shelves lined with jars of leaves from a hundred different worlds. It was a place for travelers, for those passing through, for the lost and the searching.

   His regular customer—an elderly woman with silver hair and knowing eyes—had been coming for years. She always ordered the same thing: jasmine tea with a touch of honey. She never asked where Arden came from or where he was going. She simply sat, drank her tea, and watched the worlds shift beyond the window.

   But today, she noticed something different.

  "You're smiling," she said, setting down her cup.

  Arden blinked, caught off guard. "Am I?"

  "You are. And you've been humming. In all the years I've known you, I've never heard you hum." She tilted her head, studying him with gentle curiosity. "Something's changed."

  He looked down at the counter, at the small seed packet resting beside the register—Earth seeds, carefully labeled in Marlyn's handwriting. He'd kept it close, a talisman of hope.

  "Maybe it has," he said softly.

  "I've noticed you've been going to that garden," she said, her voice quiet, knowing. "I've seen this before."

   She smiled and sipped her tea, her eyes holding secrets she didn't need to share.

   Arden met her gaze, and for a moment, he wondered.

    But she simply set down her cup and stood. She smiled warmly. "Whatever it is- or whoever- I hope you hold on to it."

  Arden nodded. "I intend to."

   "Good," she said, "You've been alone for too long, Traveler.

  Arden didn't know what to say. He watched her leave, the door chiming softly behind her.

  After she was gone, he picked up the seed packet again, running his thumb over Marlyn's careful handwriting.

  'Not alone,' he thought, 'Not anymore.'

 

  The gifts grew heavier with meaning as time passed.

  One morning, Marlyn found a carved wooden star resting on the stone. It was small enough to fit in her palm, smoothed by careful hands, each point perfectly symmetrical. She held it, and the memory bloomed like warmth against her skin.

   A back porch in summer twilight. The creak of old wooden chairs. A boy—young, maybe eight or nine—sitting beside his grandfather at a worn workbench, wood shavings curling at their feet. The old man's weathered hands guiding smaller ones, teaching him how to carve.

   "Patience," the grandfather murmured. "Let the knife follow the grain. See? The wood will tell you where it wants to go."

    The boy's tongue between his teeth in concentration, carefully shaped a wooden star, point by point. His grandfather's steady presence beside him, patient and proud.

   Above them, the real stars emerged in the twilight sky. When the carving was finished, they looked up into the sea of constellations.

  "That one's Cassiopeia," Grandpa said, pointing up at the heavens, "See how she sits in her chair? And there—Cygnus, the swan, flying along the river of stars."

   He looked the boy in the eyes then. "Remember," the grandfather said softly, "home isn't just a place. It's the people who know your name. The ones who make space for you in their world."

   It was the last summer before everything changed. Before the traveling began and never stopped. The carved star, carefully finished and kept all these years...

  Marlyn's breath caught. The ache in the memory was profound—not just nostalgia, but grief. The loss of something precious. The weight of being unmoored.

   She turned the star over in her hand.

   Carved into the back, in careful letters: Aster.

  Her last name. His star.

  He was telling her: You're what I'm navigating towards

   

  She left him a painting.

   It was small, done on a piece of salvaged canvas she'd stretched herself. Deep indigo background scattered with white and silver stars—a constellation. Not one from Earth's sky, but one she'd created herself. A map of hope in the darkness. It's bioluminescent paint glowing gently.

  When Arden found it in the garden, he held it carefully, reverently. The moment his fingers touched the painted surface, he felt it.

  Loneliness. The vast, aching silence of space. Seventeen light-years from anyone who understood.

  Lying on her back in the research station at night, paintbrush in hand, reaching up toward the ceiling above her bed. The loneliness of the void pressed close, so she created her own sky.

  Loss woven into every brushstroke—something or someone gone, a wound that hadn't fully healed.

   But also: resilience. The refusal to surrender to the dark. Each star painted deliberately, an act of defiance. Of healing. Of reaching towards light even when the void pressed close.

   Painting constellation after constellation to remember Earth. To feel less alone. To believe that somewhere, across impossible distances, connection was still possible.

  Sometimes her brushstrokes were sad and gentle. Other times they were swift and forceful. A drop of bioluminescent paint fell on her cheek, and he ached to wipe it away. But here he could only silently observe.

  She looked up at her painted stars before sleep, refusing to let the darkness win.

  He didn't know what she'd lost—a person, a home, her faith in being understood. But he recognized the shape of her grief because he carried his own.

  And he understood what she was telling him: I've been alone too. I've been lost. But I'm still here. I'm still reaching.

  The vision ended and he found himself back in his own world, clutching her painted canvas. The garden was their meeting place, but the research station beyond it—that was hers. He'd always respected her space, having never crossed that threshold, nor had he ever looked through the windows. But now, with her gift in his hands and her memory still fresh in his mind, he couldn't help himself.

  The research station existed in his dimension too, but here it was abandoned—empty corridors, silent rooms, dust settling on forgotten equipment. He moved through it quietly, following instinct until he found her quarters.

  The door was open. He stepped inside.

  And looked up.

  His breath caught.

   The entire ceiling was covered in constellations. Hundreds—no, thousands—of stars painted in glowing pigment that shimmered softly in the dim light. They sprawled across every inch of the space above, overlapping and interweaving, some precise and scientific, others wild and imagined. Cassiopeia and Orion beside constellations that had never existed in any Earth sky. Rivers of stars flowing into nebulae of color—indigo and violet and deep, aching blue.

   It was breathtaking. And heartbreaking. She'd painted an entire universe above her bed because the real one was too far away.

   Arden stood in the center of the room, turning slowly, taking it all in. The beauty of it. The loneliness of it. The sheer scale of what she'd been surviving.

  She'd been alone for so long. And she'd filled the darkness with light, star by star, night after night. He understood then—truly understood—what it had cost her to reach back. To believe in the impossible. To trust that someone on the other side might see her too.

  "Marlyn," he whispered to the empty room, her name a prayer.

  She wouldn't have to be alone anymore. He'd make certain of it.

 

   The next morning, Marlyn found a note on the stone. The paper was the same cloth-like texture she'd come to recognize, but his handwriting seemed less steady than usual—as if the words had cost him something to write.

"My traveling name is Arden. It's the name I chose when I left, the name I give to strangers and customers and everyone I meet in passing.

  But my name—the one my grandfather called me, the one I haven't used in years—is Arlo. Arlo Strand.

  I want you to know it. I want you to know me."

   Marlyn read the note three times, her heart aching with the trust he'd placed in her hands. He'd given her something precious—his true name, the one tied to home and memory and the boy who carved stars on his grandfather's porch.

  She sat in the garden for a long time. She'd been carrying the wooden star in her pocket since he had given it to her, and now she drew it out, letting it rest in her palm. She turned it over in her hand as his name—Arlo—turned over in her mind, like a constellation she was learning to navigate by.

  Then she wrote back.

 

When Arlo found her response the next day, his hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the paper.

  "Thank you for trusting me with your name. It's beautiful, and it suits you.

   My full name is Marlyn Linnea Aster. Most people just call me Marlyn—it's easier, more professional. But I'd like you to know all of me too."

He stared at the words, her name.

  Marlyn Linnea Aster.

  Marlyn- Star of the Sea

  Linnea—the twin flower. Delicate, rare, with paired blossoms that grew together. He'd seen them in a dozen different worlds, always recognized them by their gentle, nodding heads.

   And Aster—star. But also a flower, star-shaped and resilient, blooming even in difficult soil.

   A flower and a star, intertwined. Delicate and celestial, grounded and infinite. It fit her perfectly—the botanist who painted constellations, who planted hope in the void, who reached across impossible distances with quiet courage.

  He folded the note carefully and tucked it close to his heart.

  Marlyn. Linnea. Aster.

  He would remember every part of her name. Every part of her.

 

   Marlyn had always been a scientist first.

   Even as the exchanges with Arlo deepened, even as her heart opened to the impossible, her mind catalogued patterns. She began to notice: the gifts appeared most often in the early morning hours. Always in the same spot—third row, near the basil, close to where she'd planted her tree. The air there felt different—cooler, somehow denser, like the atmosphere before a storm.

   She started documenting. Temperature readings. Electromagnetic fluctuations. The way light bent strangely around that particular patch of soil.

   "VERA," she said one morning, kneeling beside the stone where gifts appeared, "run a spatial analysis of this location. I want to know if there's anything unusual about the dimensional fabric here."

   There was a pause—longer than usual for the AI's processing.

   "Marlyn," VERA said slowly, "there's a localized anomaly. The readings suggest... a convergence point. Two spaces occupying the same coordinates but in different dimensional frequencies."

   VERA's words landed like a stone. Marlyn went still. "A Threshold."

   "In layman's terms, yes. The barrier between dimensions is exceptionally thin here. Permeable, even, under certain conditions."

    She sat back on her heels, staring at the unremarkable patch of garden that had become the most extraordinary place in her world.

   "Could someone Cross through?" she asked quietly.

   "Theoretically," VERA replied. "Though I'd advise caution. We don't know how stable—"

   But Marlyn was already reaching forward, her hand extended toward the space above the stone.

   The air shimmered.

    For just a moment, she felt it—a thinness, like touching the surface of water. A place where the veil between worlds grew gossamer-thin. Not here in the garden, she realized. The garden was where they could leave things, where the overlap allowed objects to pass through.

    But to actually Cross—to step from one world into another—that would require somewhere the barrier was even thinner. Somewhere more stable.

   She pulled her hand back, her heart racing.

   "VERA, can you map the convergence? Find other points where the dimensional barrier might be thin enough to cross?"

   "Already on it," the AI said, and if a computer could sound intrigued, VERA did. "There's a secondary point approximately fifty meters northwest. The readings there suggest a more stable threshold—one that might support physical passage."

   Marlyn stood, brushing soil from her knees. She could find him. She could actually meet him. All she had to do was be brave enough to step through.

  That night, she left him a note.

  "Arlo,

   I found it. The place where our worlds touch. There's a threshold—a place where the barrier is thin enough to Cross.

  I want to meet you. Not just through gifts and letters, but truly. Face to face.

  If you're willing... I'm willing to step through."

   Arlo's response came swiftly, his handwriting urgent but careful.

  "Marlyn,

  Yes. More than anything, yes.

   But I need you to understand what you're risking. I've been traveling between dimensions for years, and it's not without cost. I've tried to Cross to your side, but the Veil won't hold me—I'm pulled back within moments, like water through a sieve. The Crossing can only be made by someone still anchored to one dimension. It has to be you.

    The Veil's thinness fluctuates—you might not be able to return. The crossing itself takes a toll; it requires intention and energy. And each time the Threshold is used, it becomes a little more fragile, a little less stable.

   I would never forgive myself if you were trapped here, or hurt, or lost because of me.

   But if you're willing to take that risk... I'll be waiting. I'll be there to catch you if the crossing is difficult. I'll make sure you're safe.

   The choice is yours. I'll understand whatever you decide.

   Arlo"

   Marlyn read the letter three times, weighing every word.

   The risks were real. She'd hypothesized as much, and he'd confirmed it to be true. She might never see her research station again, never return to the garden she'd built, never go back to Earth. The Threshold could collapse. The Crossing could fail.

   But she'd been alone for so long. And Arlo- Arlo had reached across impossible distances to find her. Had shared his grief and his hope and his true name.

   Some things were worth the risk.

  She wrote back simply: "I'll be there."

 

  They chose dawn—the hour when both their worlds felt quietest, when the veil between dimensions grew thinnest.

   Marlyn stood at the coordinates VERA had mapped, fifty meters northwest of the garden. The air here felt different—charged, expectant, like the moment before lightning strikes. She could see it if she looked carefully: a faint shimmer in the space before her, like heat rising from pavement, like the world holding its breath.

   Her heart hammered against her ribs.

   She glanced down at her wrist, at the small device she'd spent the last few hours programming. VERA's AI, compressed and transferred into a portable interface. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to return—didn't know if the Threshold would remain stable, didn't know what Crossing might mean for her ability to come back.

   But she knew she couldn't leave VERA behind.

   "Ready?" she whispered to the watch.

   "As ready as an AI can be for interdimensional travel," VERA replied, her dry humor intact even in miniature form. "Though I should note this is well outside my original programming parameters."

   "Mine too," Marlyn said softly.

   She took a breath.

   And stepped forward.

The transition was like passing through a curtain of cool water—but with resistance, like the universe itself was questioning her passage. It took effort, concentration, will to push through. For a heartbeat, she existed in both places at once—her research station and somewhere else entirely. The pull was disorienting. Exhausting.

Then the world solidified around her, and she stumbled.

   Strong hands caught her before she could fall.

   "I've got you," Arlo said, his voice tight with worry. "I've got you."

   She looked up, breathless and dizzy from the Crossing, and there he was. He'd been waiting- positioned exactly where she'd emerge, ready to catch her, just as he'd promised. Warmth bloomed inside of her. His face was pale with concern, his hands steady on her arms.

   "Are you alright?" he asked urgently. "Marlyn, are you—"

   "I'm here," she said, finding her balance, finding her breath. "I'm alright. I'm here."

   Relief softened his features, and something else—wonder, as though she were something impossible made real.

   "You came," he whispered. "Even knowing the risks, you came."

  "Of course I did," she said simply.

  After a brief pause he reached into his coat pocket, his fingers closing around something small. "I have something of yours." He held out his hand.

   It was her pencil—the one she used for labeling seed packets, worn, graphite-stained, and familiar. The wood was smooth from years of use.

   Marlyn stared at it, then at him. "How- Where did you find it?"

    "It came through a few weeks ago," he said quietly. "The threshold pulled it across—things from your side slip through sometimes when the veil thins. I tried to send it back, but it wouldn't go. The threshold only works one way for objects from your world. So I kept it safe. Thought maybe one day I could give it back myself."

   She took it carefully, turning it over in her fingers like something precious. Because it was. Not because of what it was, but because he'd kept it. Because he'd known it mattered.

   She tucked it into her pocket, next to the stone he had gifted her, glad that she had thought to bring it with her.

  "Thank you," she said, her voice soft.

   A soft chime came from the device on her wrist. "Dimensional threshold successfully traversed," VERA's voice announced with her characteristic dry tone. "All vitals stable. Though I should note, the readings on this side are fascinating. I'll need time to process the data."

  Arlo's eyes widened slightly, then a smile tugged at his lips. "You brought your AI."

  "I couldn't leave her behind," Marlyn said. "VERA, meet Arlo. Arlo, this is VERA—she's been keeping me company for years."

  "Virtual Environmental Research Assistant, at your service. A pleasure," VERA said. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Arden. Thank you for making her truly smile again."

 

   Arlo led her inside the shop, his hand still steadying her elbow, as if he was afraid that if he let go, she might disappear—might not really be there at all.

   The interior was warm and cluttered in the best way. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of tea leaves, curious objects from a dozen different worlds, and small treasures that seemed to have no purpose other than beauty. Soft light filtered through colored glass windows, casting rainbow patterns across worn wooden floors.

   But what stopped Marlyn in her tracks were the things of hers he'd kept.

   There, on a shelf behind the counter: the seed packet she'd sent, carefully preserved in a small frame. The small canvas with her painted constellation, displayed on a stand where light could catch it. A jar of the soil she'd given him, labeled in his careful handwriting. Her notes, pressed flat and arranged like precious documents.

  Every gift. Every piece of herself she'd sent across the impossible distance.

  He'd kept them all.

   "I couldn't let them go," Arlo said quietly, watching her take it in. "Every one felt like... like proof you were real. That this wasn't just something I'd imagined."

   Marlyn turned to him, a smile breaking across her face. "I have yours too. The carved star, the tea, your notes. I kept everything."

  "Two collectors of lost things," he said with a soft smile.

  "Not lost anymore," she whispered.

  They sat together at a small table by the window, and Arlo made tea—a blend he said he'd been saving for something important. The ritual was soothing: the careful measuring of leaves, the precise temperature of water, the patience required for steeping.

  Marlyn watched his hands move with practiced grace and thought about all the times she'd imagined this—sitting across from him, seeing his face, hearing his voice without the barrier of dimensions between them.

   "Tell me about your travels," she said. "All the worlds you've seen."

   And he did. He told her about markets that floated on clouds, about forests where the trees sang at dawn, about cities built in the hearts of dead stars. He spoke of loneliness and wonder in equal measure, of always moving, never staying, searching for something he couldn't name.

   "Until the Garden," he said. "Until you."

   Her heart fluttered. Their eyes met. For a moment they just stared at each other, seeing the truth, the entirety of the other's being—neither knowing what to say, but their eyes said more than words ever could.

    She realized she was staring and looked down at her tea, taking a sip to steady herself. Then she told him about Earth, about the research station, about painting stars on her ceiling to remember home. About the loneliness of space and the strange comfort of her plants—living things that needed her, that grew under her care.

   "I thought I'd gotten used to being alone," she admitted. "And then your gifts started appearing, and I realized... I'd just been surviving. Not living."

  "Me too," he said quietly.

  They talked until the light through the colored windows shifted, until the tea grew cold and neither of them cared.

   "Come with me," Arlo said, standing and offering his hand. "There's something I want to show you."

   He led her through a narrow door and up a winding staircase to the roof of the shop. The view stretched out before her in impossible beauty.

   The sky here wasn't like Earth's sky or the void of space. It was layered—colors bleeding into each other like watercolor, deep purples and golds and soft pinks all existing at once. And the sun—or whatever served as a sun in this dimension—was setting in a way that defied physics, casting light that seemed to come from multiple directions at once.

   "I come up here sometimes," Arlo said, settling beside her on the roof's edge, their legs dangling over the side. "When I need to remember that beautiful things still exist."

   They sat in comfortable silence, shoulders touching, watching the impossible sunset paint the sky.

   "Thank you," Marlyn said softly, "for reaching out. For leaving that first gift. For being brave enough to believe I might reach back."

   "Thank you for reaching back," he replied. "For being brave enough to cross through."

 

   They didn't notice the footsteps on the stairs, too absorbed in the sunset and each other's presence.

    The old woman stopped at the top of the staircase, taking in the scene: Arden and a woman sitting side by side on the roof's edge, hands intertwined, watching the sky together.

   She'd been coming to his shop for years. He was always kind, always patient, always alone. There was something about him—a restlessness, a searching quality, as if he was waiting for something he couldn't name.

    But now, looking at him—at the way he sat beside this woman with the paint-stained fingers and wonder in her eyes, at the way they leaned into each other like two halves of something whole—the old woman understood.

   He'd found it.

   Whatever he'd been searching for all this time, he'd found it.

   She smiled, a bittersweet expression of recognition and joy. Then, quietly, carefully, she descended the stairs without a word.

  They never knew she'd been there.

   And as she stepped back into the shop and out into the street, she carried with her the image of two people who'd found each other across impossible distances. A reminder that some searches do end.

   She didn't need to disturb them.

   Seeing Arden—always traveling, always moving, always alone—finally at peace was enough.

   

   Marlyn took a breath, gathering her courage. She'd crossed dimensions to get here. This next step should be easier.

  It wasn't.

  "Arlo," she said quietly, "I don't want to go back."

  He turned to her, surprise and hope warring in his expression.

   "Not because I can't," she continued, her words coming faster now. "But because I don't want to. I've spent years in that research station, seventeen light-years from anyone. I was surviving, but I wasn't living. And then you—" Her voice caught. "You reached across impossible distances and reminded me what it felt like to be seen. To be known."

   She squeezed his hand. "You travel between worlds. You see impossible things. You've told me about markets in the clouds and forests that sing and cities in dead stars, and I—" She laughed, a little breathless. "I want to see them too. With you."

   "Marlyn—"

   "I want to travel with you," she said, meeting his eyes. "If you'll have me. I know it's dangerous, I know the Threshold is fragile, I know there are risks. But I'd rather risk everything with you than be safe and alone."

  Arlo stared at her, and for a moment she worried she'd asked too much.

   Then his expression broke into something radiant— pure Joy, disbelief, and something long forgotten.

  "Yes," he whispered. "Yes. I never thought—I never let myself hope that someone might want to stay. That someone might choose this."

   "I choose this," she said. "I choose you." And once again they found themselves lost in each other's eyes.

   "Then we'll go together," he said, his voice bright and gentle, captivated by her eyes, like she was the only star in the sky. "I'll show you everything. Every world, every wonder. We'll plant gardens in impossible places. We'll map new constellations—"

  "We'll be home," she said softly.

  He paused, looking at her with soft confusion.

   "Wherever we go together," she continued, "That's home."

   His expression shifted—wonder and relief and something unguarded. As if he'd been searching for those words his whole life and never knew it until she'd spoken them.

   "Yes," he whispered. "Home."

   The sky deepened to indigo scattered with stars—different constellations than either of them knew, but beautiful nonetheless. They sat close together, watching the impossible sky wheel overhead, full of stars neither of them had names for yet.

   But they would learn them.

  Together.

 

Epilogue

 

  Where do lost things go?

  It was the question Marlyn had asked herself a thousand times in the loneliness of space. The question that seemed to have no answer, only the ache of absence.

  But now she knew.

  The Garden thrived. It existed in both dimensions now. It was a place where two worlds touched, where the impossible became real.

  Arlo and Marlyn returned often, Crossing through the Threshold that had brought them together. They tended the Garden between journeys, planting seeds from new worlds, watching impossible things grow.

   The research station stood empty in Marlyn's dimension, her painted constellations still glowing softly on the ceiling—a reminder of the loneliness she'd survived, the hope she'd refused to surrender.

  In Arlo's dimension, the abandoned station had become something else: a waystation for travelers, a place where lost things could rest—an extension of his Tea Shop. He'd filled it with plants and light, transforming emptiness into sanctuary.

   VERA adapted to her new existence with characteristic efficiency. She monitored the Tea Shop and waystation. When Arlo and Marlyn traveled, she kept inventory of seeds and plants from a dozen different worlds, and occasionally offered dry commentary that made them both laugh. VERA had found her place too—no longer confined to a lonely research station, but part of something larger. Part of a family.

  And the Garden—their garden—bloomed at the center of it all. As their connection deepened between themselves and others, new blooms began to blossom and flourish in vibrant displays of color. What had started as tentative seedlings now grew wild and beautiful. Plants from Earth grew beside flora from Arlo's travels, species that had never shared soil before intertwining their roots in peaceful coexistence. It was as if the Garden itself responded to what they'd built together.

  Two lost things had found each other across impossible distances. A botanist who painted stars and a merchant who traveled dimensions, both searching for something they couldn't name.

  Home. Connection. Someone who knew their true name.

  Where do lost things go?

  Sometimes, if you're very lucky, they find each other.

   And they grow something beautiful in the space between worlds.

The End