There is a garden, and it has always been there, and it has always been waiting for somebody.

The first part is all cottage flowers and crooked little paths, herbs growing wherever they'll fit, fruit trees heavy with something ripe, butterflies, warm grass, and a greenhouse tucked off to one side. There's a fountain somewhere beyond the lawn, plenty of shade, and more than enough places to sit.

Further in, the hedges get taller.

The paths narrow. Roses climb over walls and archways until they're everywhere, and somewhere past all that green is a maze.

Some parts of the garden are nicer than others. Gardens are like that. So are the things that keep them.

Come in. Have a strawberry. Every gate is easier to enter than to leave, but you knew that.