The city shimmered under the unrelenting sun. Streets blurred in the heat, and the news warned that this heatwave could crack asphalt and patience alike. On her rooftop garden, Amara watered the last survivors—her tomatoes sagged, her basil drooped, and her lettuce had bolted weeks ago. The air was thick and still, offering no reprieve.

As she turned to leave, a chill kissed her bare arm. She froze, heart skipping. A chill?

Her eyes darted to the far corner of the garden, a space she hadn’t checked in days. Nestled between the dried husks of parsley was a peculiar plant, its leaves coated in a delicate frost. Its tendrils seemed to pulse faintly, a mist curling from the icy surface like a sigh of winter.

Amara crouched, hesitating before brushing her fingers against a frosted leaf. It was cold—unnaturally so. The temperature around it dropped sharply, and she gasped as the heat that had suffocated her all day retreated in its presence.

She stood, glancing around the neighboring rooftops. No one was watching. No one had noticed the impossible.

By nightfall, she couldn’t resist the pull of the frostling. She returned with gloves and a lantern, determined to inspect it further. As she touched the soil, she found it frozen solid, a shocking contrast to the sweltering air.

The plant seemed alive in ways that defied explanation. Its frost-coated leaves swayed slightly, though there was no wind. She whispered to it, “What are you?”

The frostling pulsed, and for a moment, she thought she heard it whisper back—a soft, crystalline chime in her mind.

The next morning, the heatwave grew worse, but her rooftop was an oasis. Cool air radiated from the frostling, reviving her dying plants and drawing birds she hadn’t seen in years.

By the week’s end, word spread. Neighbors climbed the fire escape, desperate for relief. Amara tried to keep them away, but soon the rooftop buzzed with curious onlookers.

That night, the frostling began to wither. Its frost faded, and its leaves turned brittle. Amara pleaded with it, begged it to stay, to survive.

But as dawn broke, the plant crumbled to dust, leaving nothing but a patch of frozen soil and a faint shimmer in the air. The rooftop warmed, the heat pressing back in like an unwanted guest.

Yet, the frostling left its mark. The tomatoes thrived, the basil flourished, and Amara’s garden became the heart of the neighborhood. People came not for the cool air but for the hope the frostling had planted—proof that even in the hottest, most desperate times, something extraordinary could bloom.