---
The first thing Elara noticed was the cold. Not biting, not cruel — just… silent. Like the world itself had paused to watch her wake.
She opened her eyes to a ceiling of swaying green. Trees. A canopy above her, dense and dripping with mist. She sat up, her fingers sinking into damp moss, and tried to remember who she was.
Nothing came.
Her name floated to her, not from her own memory, but from a faint whisper carried on the breeze. Elara. That was all she knew. No past. No family. No footsteps behind her. Just that name and the eerie, too-quiet forest.
She stood, legs shaky, the scent of earth and dew surrounding her. The mist was thick, almost alive, clinging to her skin like breath. Somewhere nearby, water trickled. A stream, perhaps. Her feet moved before she told them to — instinct pulling her forward.
Then she saw it.
A fox. Black as shadow, its eyes golden and bright. It stood on a moss-covered rock, tail flicking. It stared at her, unwavering.
Elara took a cautious step toward it. “Hello?”
The fox tilted its head, then turned and trotted away into the fog.
She hesitated. But something about it — something beyond logic — tugged at her chest. A whisper again. Follow.
So she did.
The forest stretched endlessly, but the fox never vanished. It moved like it belonged here — like it was the forest. Trees twisted into unfamiliar shapes, and the mist thickened, curling around her legs, her arms, her thoughts. It should have frightened her. It didn’t.
After what felt like hours, the trees opened into a clearing.
And there it stood — a village veiled in silver fog.
Stone cottages with mossy roofs nestled beneath towering willows. Lanterns flickered softly along the narrow dirt path. The air felt ancient here. Like time had curled inward and decided to rest.
The fox sat at the entrance, looking back at her one final time. Then it slipped into the mist and disappeared.
A wooden sign arched above the entry gate, the letters carved and faded:
VEILMOOR
Elara’s hand hovered over the gate. Then she pushed it open and stepped inside.
---
The villagers noticed her the moment she entered.
Not with surprise — but with curiosity, as though they’d been expecting someone like her. An old woman knitting on a rocking chair outside her cottage gave Elara a slow nod.
“You’ve arrived late, girl,” the woman rasped. “The garden’s been whispering all morning.”
Elara blinked. “Garden?”
The woman didn’t answer. Just motioned to the inn at the far end of the path. “You’ll find your way. You always do.”
“You… know me?”
The woman smiled. “No one really knows anyone here, dear. We just remember what matters.”
---
The innkeeper’s name was Thom. He was broad, balding, and surprisingly kind. He didn’t ask where Elara came from. He simply handed her a warm drink and showed her to a room upstairs.
“You’ll feel it soon enough,” he said, patting her shoulder. “The pull. Just listen.”
“To what?” she asked.
He smiled. “The soil. The silence. The garden.”
That night, she dreamed of petals falling upward.
---
The next morning, she wandered. The village was peaceful in the way forgotten places often are. Children played beside the brook. Lanterns never stopped glowing. No one asked questions. No one offered answers.
And still, the whispers came.
They weren’t voices — not really. Just... feelings. Echoes of memory pressing into her skin. Every time she passed a stone wall or an ivy-wrapped lamppost, she felt the ghosts of something long gone.
That was when she saw him.
In the far corner of Veilmoor, behind an arched wooden gate, stood a man among wild roses. He was tall, pale-skinned, and wore black from collar to boot. His hair was dark, his expression darker.
He tended the plants like they were sacred — gloved hands brushing dirt as if touching skin. A long hedge wall enclosed the place, and only one sign marked it:
The Garden of Silent Wishes.
Elara stared. The air inside the garden was still. Unmoving.
The man looked up suddenly — and froze.
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then he turned away, gripping the rose bush until blood bloomed between his gloves.
---
Elara stepped closer. “Excuse me…”
“No visitors,” he said without looking.
“I didn’t mean to intrude. I just—”
He turned to her fully. His eyes, cold and grey like a winter sky, bore into hers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Something inside her twisted. “Do I… know you?”
A flicker — pain, perhaps — passed through his gaze.
“No,” he said. “But I know you.”
---
I'll come soon with part two, bye my readers🥰🥰🥰
