Lana stood frozen as the glowing dust traced and wrote across the soil at her feet.

  Perfectly straight lines formed and connected, giving birth to a precise geometric layout. She recognized the Academy’s floor plan instantly.

  But then the inner lines began to shift. Walls moved. Sections crumbled and reassembled. Corridors shortened. Rooms expanded. A second structure overlaid the first, forming a different layout. Handwritten cursive appeared beside the newly formed rooms:

  living room

  dining room

  main hall

  veranda

  “A mansion…” Lana whispered.

  Near the center, several wall lines curved and intersected seamlessly, forming two deliberate sigils: LV.

  The layout expanded beyond the building itself, stretching outward across the grounds. Lana stepped back to give it space, eyes locked on the living diagram as it grew.

  Gardens unfolded in glowing outline. Hills were traced. Ancient greenhouse frames appeared, each labeled in the same elegant, slanted hand.

  observatory

  testing area

  North of the manor, the dust hollowed out a circular mark in the soil. Beneath it, the words formed slowly: the S. chamber entrance

  Lana’s heart pounded as her mind raced to keep up.

  The chrysolite dust gathered in the lower right corner of the vast sketch. It began to write again, the cursive steady and personal.

  "What stands upon these grounds was mine.

  What takes root here is my blood."

  The dust paused. And then the final words formed, slower this time, as if deliberate.

  Lightveil, Heir.

  Lana’s pulse spiked. The glow intensified, brightening as though searing the image into the soil, and into her memory, before fading abruptly. The sketch collapsed in on itself, the dust dispersing in the air.

  Lana stood trembling, goosebumps rising along her arms. Without a second thought, she turned and ran out of the greenhouse.

  Her thoughts spiraled as she hurried across the grounds. Fingers trembling, she pulled out her phone and dialed Rosalyn’s number.

  The line rang once. Twice. Then Rosalyn’s calm, quiet voice answered.

  “Rosalyn,” Lana said, trying to steady her breathing. “I need to speak with you tomorrow. Early, if possible. It’s urgent.”

  -------------------------

  Morning sunlight spilled through Rodderick’s bar windows, falling across the polished wooden floor. There weren’t many customers at this hour. Rosalyn and Lana sat at a table by the large windows, each with a warm coffee drizzled with caramel syrup.

  Bjorn was the waiter today, having taken the part-time job recently to earn some extra money. His bulky frame moved awkwardly between tables, Rodderick offering approving nods from time to time. Often when writing down an order from a group of girls, Bjorn would attempt what he considered ‘charming humor’ to try and impress them, but it usually fell flat or earned laughing rejections.

  Lines such as: “That smile? It deserves an extra serving of bread.” or “I’ve been told I’m an excellent long-term investment.” …often left him returning to Rodderick slightly deflated, passing the orders along. Rodderick, wiping glasses with a glint of amusement in his eyes, watched, reminiscing about his younger days.

  In the corner, Rogue Gnome sipped his strawberry milk as usual. He jabbed casually when Bjorn let out a loud sigh after another failed attempt at flirtation:

  “Statistically, your approach lacks subtlety.”

  “Subtlety is for cowards!” Bjorn replied, already bouncing back, his energy pumping again.

  “No it ain’t, son. No it ain’t.” Rodderick said with a laugh.

  Meanwhile, at Lana and Rosalyn’s table, Rosalyn listened intently, her chest tight as Lana recounted the event in the greenhouse.

  “…and then the sketch dissipated like it had never been there. The Sleeper closed again as if it had never opened, as if its dust had never traced those patterns or written those words. Like an illusion, but I clearly saw it.”

  Rosalyn held her cup with both hands, staring into the dark surface of her coffee, shaken. She didn’t speak for a long moment. The bar’s quiet chatter drifted around them.

  Then she repeated quietly:

  “What stands upon these grounds was mine… What takes root here is my blood… Heir…”

  “Rosalyn, do you understand the implications of this?” Lana pressed, leaning forward. “The Academy Grounds -everything on them, including the main building -belonged to this person: Lightveil. The lands remembered them deeply. It was their bloodline domain!”

  Rosalyn remained silent, eyes still fixed on the cup.

  “Do you know how this changed my entire perception of everything I knew so far?” Lana continued. “The Academy Grounds were always a mystery. The only thing we knew about them was that this incredible soil, so fertile among the surrounding decay, covered it and somehow dated back 500 years, while the Academy building was way older. There are no ownership records. No founding documents. It just existed, its past as if deliberately erased!”

  She exhaled sharply.

  “And now this revelation. Lightveil was the heir. Maybe the reason of the Academy Grounds’ lushness in the first place! How did you even come across that name?”

  “I… It just came into my mind one day…”

  “Then you must have a sixth sense because this is too comfortable a coincidence!”

  The words hung between them. Then Rosalyn stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Ro-”

  “Thank you for telling me.” Rosalyn interrupted with a look of gratitude. “Truly.”

  She walked out of the bar in haste. Her coffee had remained untouched.

  -------------------------

  Her steps carried her hurriedly toward the Academy Grounds. Her heart raced, the yearning inside her pulsing harder with every breath. She had barely managed to contain it while Lana spoke about what she’d uncovered about Lightveil.

  The Heir.

  It clicked into place. Why he had seemed so familiar with the object in the Abandoned Gardens in her dream. Why the crystal pool had reflected the garden’s past.

  The Abandoned Gardens…

  They always drew her in, but now the pull was even stronger. Rosalyn could sense that this was the area that had been the most precious to Lightveil in his entire domain. And she longed… needed…to feel his presence. It was too strong to ignore.

  She entered the Academy Grounds and took the little-used path through the pines to avoid being seen. Her boots crunched softly over mulch beneath the restless whisper of pine needles. Soon, she stood before the delicate gate of sculpted leaves that marked the entrance to the Abandoned Gardens.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  She slipped inside without hesitation, her heart thundering.

  She knew the layout by now and moved toward the small, crystal-clear pool set into the block of granite. There she stopped, catching her breath, eyes fixed on the water’s surface.

  She knelt, her fingers gripping the stone’s edge as she leaned forward, chest tight.

  Last time, alongside the glimpse of the garden’s past, his hand had appeared in the reflection, mirroring her own. She needed to see it again.

  Slowly, she extended her right hand toward the center of the pool. Her own palm appeared in the reflection. She shifted her fingers slightly, hoping for change.

  Nothing.

  A pang of disappointment rose in her chest, but the yearning remained, steady and insistent.

  She touched the surface with the tips of her fingers. Ripples spread outward, distorting the image. And suddenly her reflected hand seemed to lengthen, to stretch unnaturally.

  Rosalyn straightened, heart pounding, eyes widening, unblinking.

  And when the water stilled, Lightveil’s palm was there again, perfectly aligned with her own. In the background, behind his hand, the arch stood whole. Restored, alive with carefully pruned vines.

  The past.

  Rosalyn’s breath hitched. She trembled, pale one moment, flushed the next, but kept her hand hovering just above the water. She wouldn’t run this time.

  Slowly, she lowered her palm. His mirrored the movement. It felt as though only the thinnest veil separated them.

  And then she touched the reflection of his hand.

  Instantly cold pierced her to the bone, and the world vanished in a blaze of white.

  -------------------------

  The sound of running water made her open her eyes. She still stood in the Abandoned Gardens, beside the granite block. But something was wrong.

  She turned slowly. The Abandoned Gardens no longer seemed abandoned. The colonnades stood whole and unmarred. The arches rose complete, draped in luminous chrysolite vines threaded with trumpet-shaped flowers that cast a gentle shade. The cobblestones were clean, unworn, free of moss. Delicate bellflowers and white asters swayed in a soft breeze, arranged in carefully tended beds.

  Rosalyn looked down at herself. And froze.

  She was not in her body. She was a silhouette - translucent, colorless - as though shaped from transparent light. She could see through herself, faintly shimmering at the edges.

  She reached toward a bellflower but her fingers passed through it, unable to grip it. She straightened with an erratically beating heart.

  This was the past.

  The sound of running water ceased and she heard calm footsteps against the cobblestone. A figure approached along the narrow path.

  Her heartbeat accelerated as she recognized the familiar tall, strong yet lean build, the white robes embroidered with silver, the long, silken silver hair falling freely down his back.

  Lightveil.

  There was no mist obscuring him now. Rosalyn’s pulse spiked at the realization. She saw his face clearly for the first time.

  Delicate yet undeniably masculine features. Beautiful, ethereal, with a subtle ascetic charm. But it was his eyes that arrested her breath: clear, calm, and chrysolite-colored. She had only seen glimpses of them up until now. He seemed somewhere between his late twenties and early thirties.

  He carried a watering can in each hand. His steps were composed, unhurried, certain. He moved with calm dignity. His gaze seemed distant, a faint, thoughtful smile resting on his lips.

  Rosalyn didn’t know whether to move or remain still, the pounding in her chest reaching her ears, until she realized he could not see her.

  He passed beside her, close enough that his shoulder almost grazed her own, heading toward the birch tree.

  She hesitated only a moment before following him.

  He passed the worktable beneath the birch tree’s sweeping branches and stopped before four pits that she recognized. Except now they were not empty. Four young saplings stood within them.

  Lightveil watered each one in turn. Then he crouched, one knee pressing into the soil, and opened his palm. A gentle chrysolite-white light lit up from his hand. He guided it toward each tree.

  They responded instantly. Before her eyes, the saplings surged upward, growing at an astounding rate, rising past his height in seconds. Their leaves unfurled, each tree featuring different shapes and textures: small almond-shaped blades, lush star-like spreads, irregular clusters, heart-shaped silhouettes. All were vibrant and healthy.

  “The Four Great Trees…” Rosalyn whispered in awe.

  Lightveil straightened, a faint approving smile touching his lips as he regarded their growth.

  He turned then toward the worktable beneath the birch. Resting upon it was a complex device -metal components and fine wires intricately intertwined with what appeared to be luminous vines. Organic and mechanical, fused into something deliberate.

  He leaned over it, expression focused, always calm, always unhurried. The air itself seemed to breathe peace around him. Rosalyn felt that calm seep into her. The yearning still pulsed in her chest, but now that she was standing near him, deep in his presence, it softened, transforming into something sweet and soothing.

  She sat on a low grey-brick wall that bordered the cobblestone path and watched him work. His movements were precise, deliberate, his hands deft with intricate tools as he adjusted and refined the device.

  After some time, he lifted the completed component and carried it from the Gardens toward a cavernous entrance to the North - dark, vast, and unlit. It was pitch black inside. Rosalyn could see nothing.

  Lightveil stepped into it, his white robes swallowed by the darkness.

  Time moved differently here. Rosalyn could not tell how long she waited, but gradually the sky shifted. The sun dipped low, casting molten gold and amber across the domain before fading into dusk. The world softened into blue-grey tones. Sparse lanterns along the paths flickered to life, awoken by sensors, their warm orange glow steady and not blinding.

  At last, Lightveil emerged from the cavern, hands empty. A faint, quiet satisfaction rested on his face, as though whatever work he had completed had gone as intended. He returned toward the Gardens.

  He paused at the threshold, thoughtful, then approached the ring of colonnades, covered in the chrysolite vines. They were once unfamiliar to Rosalyn, but now the vines reminded her the one that had grown before her at her choosing and that had birthed her trumpet flower. It glowed softly.

  Lightveil studied it for a moment before reaching out and touching it.

  At his contact, the vine brightened, becoming almost phosphorescent in the deepening dusk. Gentle waves of faint light pulsed outward then reversed, flowing back toward his extended hand as though he were drawing something from it. When the emission ceased, he withdrew his hand and retrieved a small notebook from the worktable, recording his observations in it.

  Rosalyn did not take her eyes off him.

  But then, suddenly, Lightveil’s eyes flared in a powerful chrysolite-white. The notebook slipped from his grasp, striking the cobblestone with a dry rustle of paper.

  He was clearly taken aback. His expression shifted -confusion then shock, color gradually draining from his face.

  When the light faded, his eyes returned to their natural hue, but he was left shaken. He stood rigid, breathing harder now, staring ahead as if still witnessing something unseen.

  For the first time, Rosalyn saw his composure fracture.

  His gaze flicked toward the cavernous entrance. Then back to the chrysolite vine. He looked pale, subtly trembling.

  He moved briskly to the workbench and braced himself against it, fingers gripping the edges as though steadying both his body and his breath. He loosened his collar, as if oxygen had trouble reaching his lungs.

  His eyes dropped to his hands. He clenched them into fists. And then he stilled, head down, face obscured by shadow.

  Rosalyn had no understanding of what had just happened, but her own heartbeat accelerated, as though instinctively sensing danger.

  Lightveil remained motionless for a long moment.

  Then, abruptly, almost impulsively, he seized the pruning shears hanging from the side of the workbench. He strode back to the colonnades.

  He raised the shears to the luminous chrysolite vine, positioning the blades around one of its glowing stems, the cold metal resting against living light.

  Like a blade at a throat.

  His hand trembled. His thumb pressed against the trigger.

  The air tightened. Seconds stretched, suffocating.

  And then-

  He withdrew.

  The shears slipped from his fingers and fell into the cobblestone beside the dropped notebook.

  Lightveil exhaled.

  “It is fine…” he murmured quietly. “I am willing to pay that price…”

  Gradually, his breathing steadied. Acceptance settled over him and with it, his calm began to return.

  Just as color started coming back to his face and he bent to retrieve the fallen notebook, his eyes flared with chrysolite-white light again.

  Rosalyn’s chest tightened.

  This time, whatever he saw was too much.

  His expression shattered, horror overtaking every trace of composure.

  When the light faded, he was too shaken to remain standing. He reached for one of the columns to steady himself, but his hand trembled uncontrollably.

  Lightveil sank down at the base of the granite block.

  He was paper-white pale, his pupils blown wide. A sheen of cold sweat glistened across his forehead. He raised a trembling hand to his eyes, covering them as if the vision still burned them. He whispered, his voice breaking:

  “No… not her… please…”

  Rosalyn’s heart fractured at the sight of this raw pain she did not understand. Her unbearable longing for him only magnified it, turning his suffering into something that tore at her chest.

  She moved toward him and knelt before him, bringing herself to his level.

  She knew he couldn’t see her. She was only a ghostly witness here. But she couldn’t bear to watch him alone in that pain.

  Without thinking, she reached forward and placed her palm gently against his cheek.

  “What did you see,” she murmured softly, “that caused you such suffering?”

  Her hand passed through him.

  And yet… he stirred.

  Slowly, Lightveil lifted his face, his hand falling away from his eyes.

  Their gazes met. For a fraction of a second chrysolite focused on teal.

  And then everything flashed white.

  Rosalyn was back in the present in the Abandoned Gardens.

  Alone.

  She was still kneeling by the granite block. Her hand remained outstretched where his cheek had been. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.

  She lifted her fingers to her own face.

  Her cheeks were wet.

  She was crying.