"Always feel like I'm taking advantage somehow."
Margaret whispered, "You've lived longer than I have, yet you're not any smarter, like a child easily lured home with candy."
She looked up at the twisted roots above her.
This must be an underground space; she could smell the damp, heavy scent of earth, and it was unusually quiet around her.
"I have to go," Margaret said.
She gently touched his sleeping face, as if trying to etch his features into her memory. Harrison's body had already merged with the plants; he couldn't leave, couldn't separate. Maybe, many centuries later, he would wake up and, like the stories described, provide a haven for wandering spirits. He would meet his destined partner, and together they would raise a child named Lucien.
... It sounded like a very happy story.
Margaret kissed Harrison once more, a silent farewell.
