The garden opened before them.
Manicured hedges traced winding paths of pale gravel, their symmetry softened by time. Old oaks stood along the perimeter, branches arching overhead, leaves whispering with the breeze. Stone benches rested beneath climbing vines, untouched, patient. Farther out, the land rolled gently, dissolving into forest, green bleeding into green until the boundary disappeared altogether.
Maya slowed without meaning to.
The air here felt different—warmer, lighter—carrying the scent of jasmine, grass, and earth. Somewhere nearby, water murmured, steady and unhurried, as if the place itself breathed at its own pace.
Dahlia walked beside her, steps unhurried, her presence calm and assured.
“This place,” she said quietly, eyes forward, “reminds you that silence isn’t em
