Interlude ll: The Garden of The Dead
542 Words
Time did not exist here.
Only the whisper of memories.
Laura walked across the ashen plain, barefoot, blood humming beneath her skin like a tuning fork. Each step echoed, not outward — but inward. Like she was stepping deeper into herself.
She followed the direction of the chained gate, but the land between twisted.
Instead of flatness, she found a grove.
Trees without bark. White. Hollow. Their branches curved upward like skeletal hands in prayer. And instead of leaves, they held fragments of dreams — fluttering, semi-transparent. Some whispered. Some screamed.
“What is this place?”
“The Garden,” the voice returned. “Every soul that died with magic in their blood walks here… eventually.”
Laura touched one of the branches.
It recoiled slightly, but did not break.
A dream-leaf fell into her palm. It was a memory.
Hers.
A boy’s hand tugging hers through a summer field. Laughter. Then — fire. Screams. Smoke choking the sky. Her father turning away.
She let the leaf fall. It burst into ash.
“You are not whole,” the voice told her. “To return to life, you must reclaim yourself — or you will wake as something else.”
“What happens if I stay?”
“You become a guardian of this place. Bound to guide others through their pain. Immortal. Empty.”
She kept walking.
Through the garden, through its sorrow.
⸻
In the center stood a well.
Deep. Black. Still.
When Laura approached, the surface rippled and showed her a vision:
• Florence in mourning.
• Nico bleeding in an alley, hunted.
• Isadora arguing with a hooded council, desperate.
• And beneath the city, something still alive — not Valerio, but a seed he left behind.
“He’s not gone?” she breathed.
“You destroyed the vessel,” the voice answered. “But you did not burn the root.”
A figure began to rise from the well — not Valerio, but a child.
Dark-eyed. Familiar. He looked up at her and smiled.
“Sister,” he said. “I’m what comes next.”
She staggered back. The boy vanished.
“What was that?” she asked the voice.
“A warning,” it said. “Or a choice.”
⸻
She returned to the chained Gate of Return.
The iron door loomed higher now, its surface sweating black dew. The sigils burned faintly. Her blood responded to them — a resonance, like an echo finding its original note.
But one final symbol had appeared in the center of the door:
🜂 — The sigil for Sacrifice.
“What do I have to give?” she whispered.
“A name,” the voice replied. “A soul. A memory. Choose one.”
Laura hesitated.
A name could strip her of her identity.
A soul might fracture her humanity.
A memory… could erase someone she loved.
She pressed her hand to the gate, blood seeping into the carved sigil.
“Then take the part of me,” she said, “that still loved Valerio.”
The gate unlocked.
And as it creaked open, Laura stepped forward — lighter, colder, more dangerous.
She no longer remembered the color of Valerio’s eyes.
Only the sound of him screaming.
- Writer
