The seed pulses ripely, almost obscene in its vitality. It pulses again, and then it splits, green giving way to membranous gold and finally to the pale pink of a child’s skin, the cornsilk pallor of a child’s hair. Anastasia Miller—but not Anastasia Miller, no, Anastasia Miller is dead and gone and lost forever—tumbles into the watery sunlight that filters through the trees, naked, as are all things at the moment of their birth. She blinks at the brightness of it all, and she at once recognizes the light and knows she has never seen it before. Everything is familiar. Everything is new.

Carefully, remembering without really knowing how, Anastasia stands. Her knees, new-formed and unsteady, wobble. She spreads her arms to steady herself. The wind blows around her, and her skin prickles in response to the chill. Her clothes, discarded on the ground, are suddenly tempting. She picks them up, one piece at a time, and puts them back on. Only then does she look back at the plant that is her parent and was her prison.

It is dying. The stalk, burst by her emergence, is withering into brown mush. The dragonfly petals have fallen from the flower’s face and lie scattered amongst the withering vines. There is no going back. Only forward; only out.

She picks up a petal, admiring the prismatic beauty of it for a moment before it crumbles into dust between her fingers. For a moment, she feels obscurely sad, like something has been lost forever. Then she turns, suddenly sure of which way is home, and begins to walk.

Three days and six hours after Anastasia Miller disappeared into the woods, something that looks just like her walks back out.

Anastasia’s mother has been weeping all that time, stopping only when drugged into a light and useless daze. She is weeping when the little girl walks across the lawn, reaches for the doorknob, and lets herself inside. The sound of the door swinging shut shocks her out of her tears. Her parents—Anastasia’s grandparents—are supposed to be at the police station, following up on a possible lead. Alan, her ex, has been brought in for questioning. Every avenue is being explored. No one should be opening that door.

The little girl steps into the doorway. Caroline’s heart lurches in her chest, almost returning to its place between her lungs, protected by the birdcage of her ribs. She’s halfway on her feet before she registers the intent to move, stumbling toward the little girl, toward her little girl, toward hope, toward salvation.

“Anastasia,” she breathes.

“No,” says the child, because she isn’t, because she’s too fresh off the tree to understand the need for subtlety. That will come much later, if it comes at all. “The aliens came and took your real baby. They left me. I’m sorry.”