Stillness greeted her. An unnatural one. Not even the leaves of the trees or the wild vines and grass stirred; the wind was nonexistent. It felt as though she were stepping onto holy ground. Her boots, echoing softly against the cracked stone pavement, were the only sound.

  Rosalyn moved slowly, scanning her surroundings with cautious eyes. She expected her heart to race as she was entering an unfamiliar and potentially dangerous area. Yet to her surprise, the aching longing that had tormented her for days began to fade, gradually replaced by an inexplicable calmness, as if a wound was being soothed with balm.

  She followed the narrow stone path leading from the gates into the hidden depths of the Abandoned Gardens. Ahead, at the center, her gaze caught on a ring of colonnades topped with half-crumbled arches. Ivy crept along them, but what tumbled in pale cascades were climbing pearly-white roses, somehow still blooming despite centuries without a caretaker.

  She approached and discovered that the colonnades formed a wide, open, circular space. The roses were shedding their delicate petals onto the paving stones, moss growing between the cracks. She stepped inside and stopped at the very center. Her eyes widened; her heart began to pound anew.

  “It can’t be…” she whispered.

  Everything was the same. The layout, the atmosphere, the fallen petals, the ruined arches veiled in mist. This was the place she had seen in her second dream, the place where she had felt LV embrace her from behind.

  She trembled, the yearning returning sharply. Her hand pressed against her racing heart.

  “But it was a dream…” she murmured.

  She stepped back down onto the path, feeling both giddy and unsettled. She continued deeper into the Gardens. From the narrow walkway she could see that the circular space’s colonnades extended into an open, tunnel-like corridor that must once have offered shade in summer, perhaps covered entirely by greenery.

  She looked closer and realized that the vines were not ivy as she had assumed. They were an unfamiliar chrysolite vine, their unusual golden green shimmering faintly, with triangular leaves and delicate tendrils.

  The tunnel spanned half the perimeter of the Abandoned Gardens before ending at an ancient birch tree. Its delicate, drooping branches formed a shimmering parasol over what appeared to be a long worktable, now half-swallowed by the earth. Roots coiled visibly around its legs, anchoring it in place, as though the birch refused to let go of the last remnant, or memory, of its owner.

  Rosalyn brushed her fingers across the wood. It made a faint, hollow sound, almost like a quiet lament.

  She turned, noticing behind the worktable four pits in the ground, each no wider than 50 centimeters in diameter and about 50 deep. They looked old, edges cracked, soil dry, but strangely untouched by weeds or wild growth. The earth inside remained bare, as if preserved. Crouching, she examined them more closely. A few fragments of soil glimmered faintly, as though shed during the replanting of something long ago. They resembled seedling pits.

  She rose again and looked around. The calmness returned to her chest, warm and steady. The mist began to thin.

  Drawn onward, she walked toward a large almond tree standing alone on the western side of the Abandoned Gardens. It rose from a patch of vivid green moss where a few orchids grew, and from here the entire garden opened before her, ethereal and beautiful.

  Rosalyn settled beneath the almond’s branches, the moss soft beneath her touch. She opened her sketchbook, feeling her mind quiet and her heart finding peace, she began to draw the scene laid out before her.

  Time slipped by in that quiet calm. A gentle breeze stirred, and then -plink- a single water droplet fell somewhere nearby. The sound was startlingly loud after the earlier, absolute stillness.

  Rosalyn looked up, her pen pausing mid-stroke.

  Through the thinning mist, she spotted a dark granite block beneath one of the crumbling columns of the tunnel. This arch still had just enough of its curve intact to gather moisture; a droplet sliding from its steepest point and falling in a slow, rhythmic cadence onto the exact center of the granite’s surface.

  She frowned. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, the mist having concealed it. Intrigued, she rose and approached.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The block stood about a meter tall and 30 cm thick, topped with a perfectly flat, square surface. It could have once served as a temporary table, perhaps. But what caught her eye was the decades -no, centuries- old hollow at its center. The steady fall of droplets had carved a small, circular basin into the stone, a miniature pool filled with crystal-clear water.

  The sun slipped briefly through the clouds, casting a thin beam of light that made the pool shimmer, its ripples expanding gently with each new drop. The sight was mesmerizing.

  Rosalyn leaned closer, wanting to see the reflection: crumbled arch, climbing vines, pale sky. But when her eyes met the water’s surface, her breath hitched.

  The arch reflected in the pool was not broken at all. It stood whole. The vine was not wild and tangled, but lush, pruned, lovingly kept.

  A chill crawled down her spine.

  She lifted her gaze. The real arch sagged in ruin, the vine unkempt and feral. She looked back down. The reflection remained perfect, alive, as though the pool showed not the present… but the past.

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  “Am I hallucinating…?” she whispered.

  For reassurance, she extended her hand toward the water, expecting, hoping, to see her palm’s reflection reach back. Her fingertips appeared first in the mirrored surface, and a small wave of relief loosened her breath.

  But as she slid her hand closer-

  Her blood ran cold.

  The hand reflected in the pool was not hers.

  Long, pale fingers.

  Graceful but strong.

  Clad in a wide white sleeve embroidered with silver vines at the edges.

  A man’s hand.

  Terrified, her heart thundering, she yanked her hand back and fled toward the entrance gate. Her boots struck the stone path in frantic echoes, but as she reached the threshold she stopped abruptly, chest heaving, head bowed.

  She couldn’t make herself leave. One trembling hand pressed to her heart, she tried to steady her breaths.

  That hand… could it have been… LV’s?

  The thought surged through her like a shock. She slowly turned her head back toward the silent depths of the Gardens, her mind racing, trying to process the impossible.

  She stood there for a long time, suspended between fear and longing. And then, slowly, pulse pounding, the yearning that had tormented her for days roaring back, she walked back to the granite block.

  She stopped in front of the pool once more. Her hand shook as she reached out, inch by inch, toward the water’s surface. This time, the reflection looking back at her was her own.

  She should have felt relief.

  Instead, sadness filled her chest. Deep, aching, inexorable.

  Rosalyn sank to the base of the granite block and drew out her sketchbook. Her pen moved almost on its own, sketching LV as she saw him in the Academy Archives: face veiled but eyes clear and visible. Her heart pulsed painfully with every line she drew.

  When she finished, she studied the portrait. It was accurate, even beautiful… but she still felt she hadn’t fully captured the tenderness, the depth in his eyes. But it was enough.

  Her pen drifted to the lower edge of the page. She hesitated, then wrote: Why do I long for you…

  Rosalyn froze, suddenly self-conscious.

  “What am I even doing…?” she whispered and was just about to erase the sentence when she stopped.

  Quickly, decisively, she folded the drawing into a roll and slid it into a narrow crack in the old column beside the granite bloc's crystal clear pool.

  She lingered for only a heartbeat, gazing at the spot where she’d hidden the sketch. Then she turned and left, steps quick, as if afraid she might lose her resolve if she stayed a moment longer.

  -----------------------------------------

  Soft jazz drifted through the wide, cozy space of Rodderick’s bar, the hearth painting warm orange-gold strokes over the patrons chatting at their tables. At the counter, where Rodderick as always wiped glasses with dignity, sat two very contrasting figures.

  Bjorn, bulky and broad, occupied half the counter with his sheer presence, nursing a glass of beer. Beside him perched Rogue Gnome, small legs dangling, magenta wig firmly in place, solemnly gripping a glass of strawberry milk. Both stared straight ahead into the void, sinking into identical brooding silence. Their oddly synchronized sips made Rodderick raise an eyebrow, but he let them simmer.

  “The Tree of Hope chose Sir Vu,” Bjorn said suddenly, voice hollow.

  “The man is sly and a performer. Don’t let him fool you.” Rogue Gnome muttered darkly without looking up.

  “I saw it with my own eyes!” Bjorn slammed his glass down hard enough to rattle it. “I was the only witness! Everyone else fled! And the Tree revived instantly!”

  Rogue Gnome didn’t answer; he simply took a long, dramatic gulp of strawberry milk and exhaled like a world-weary whiskey drinker.

  “I really thought I was going to be chosen,” Bjorn sighed. “Guess I wasn’t worthy…”

  “Son,” Rodderick said from behind the counter, his voice comforting, “you saw something nobody in Arctar has ever seen up close. Count it a reward. You were sincere. Your intention was pure. You stayed when everyone else bolted. Hope rewards sincerity with truth.”

  Bjorn considered it.

  “You know… the light around Sir Vu almost touched me.”

  Rodderick nodded. “There you have it. You weren’t chosen, son. But you weren’t rejected either. That means you were worthy. Just maybe not suited for that particular role.”

  “Honestly, it was terrifying,” Bjorn admitted. “Sir Vu cried and he didn’t even seem to realize it. Tears just…flew. When he inherited the Hope’s powers I expected to see bliss or power in his face -you know, because it was like a level up -but instead there was shock and…fear even. I tried to shake him out of it, but I couldn’t. And I can lift 450 kilos, that’s my record. But I couldn’t move him an inch. It was like he weighed tons.”

  “The man even violates the laws of physics.” Rogue Gnome said grimly.

  “I wonder…since Sir Vu was chosen already by the Tree of Hope, will the crowd of hopefuls disperse now?” Bjorn asked.

  “Probably not,” Rodderick said. “Nobody else saw it. You’re the only witness. Folks’ll keep comin’ until they get bored or figure out the Tree doesn’t need anyone anymore since it’s revived and already made its choice.”

  “Masses are stupid. They’ll take ages.” Rogue Gnome muttered.

  Bjorn straightened a little, suddenly pumped again. “Maybe the Tree of Wisdom might pick me next?”

  “No chance. It’s called Wisdom. It doesn’t choose idiocy.” Rogue Gnome said.

  “Hey!”

  Rodderick laughed loudly, wiping another glass. “Aye, maybe the Tree of Humility will take pity on you both.”

  “Can it bless us with free rent?” Rogue Gnome asked, deadly serious.