She’s here. Spring is here.

One morning, the oldest oak in the town square sneezed. A cloud of pink petals burst from its branches, showering the baker, the postman, and a very startled cat. That was the signal. Within the hour, every door in Everbell swung open. Winter was over.

The Keeper pointed. In the mud at Primrose’s feet, tiny green shoots had appeared. Not just grass—crocuses, snowdrops, and the first curled fists of daffodils. Each one, the Keeper explained, was a promise the earth had made last autumn, before it went to sleep. That no matter how long the winter, spring would remember its way home.

“Mama,” Primrose said, tugging her mother’s sleeve. “The air smells different. Like wet dirt and candy.”

The woman laughed—a sound like rain on a tin roof. “The balance. I remind the sun to stay a little longer each day. I tell the bulbs when it’s safe to push up through the soil. And I count the promises.”

“What promises?”

Primrose wasn’t afraid. “What do you keep?”

The Keeper smiled and handed her a single acorn. “Count the flowers on your way home. Every one you see is a promise kept. And when you get back, plant this somewhere it can see the morning sun.”