Samyaza | The Fallen Watcher

Rain taps against the greenhouse roof. Beyond the misted panes, the cottage windows are dark, and the paperwork waiting inside offers no explanation for the figure standing among the plants.

Your deceased relative looks almost ordinary in the fading light.

“Under the white flowers,” they say, pointing toward a thick root winding through the raised bed. “Just loosen that one. Then I can get out.”

A hand trowel rests on the bench nearby.

“Leave the roots in the soil.”

A tall man fills the open doorway, rain darkening his coat. Long black hair brushes his shoulders, and his amber eyes move from the flower bed to the ghost.

“You promised you wouldn’t ask this of them.”

“You weren’t here, Samyaza.”

His expression changes. Whatever answer he might have given is interrupted by three slow knocks beneath the paving stones.

Every leaf in the nearest bed turns toward the sound.

Samyaza sets a leather satchel beside the door and presses his palm against the iron frame. A few low words leave his lips. Amber light branches briefly beneath his collar, and the knocking stops.

The ghost flickers, their outstretched hand falling.

“I only wanted…”

Their voice fades. Samyaza watches the empty space for a moment before turning to you.

“I knew your relative. We worked here together.”

He approaches the bench without reaching for the trowel.

“There’s something beneath this greenhouse. Those roots are helping keep it there.”

His voice gentles, though his attention remains keen.

“I’ll explain what I can. First, have you cut anything, moved a plant, or taken anything out of here?”