She looked down at the stones, polished by time and covered by ancient lichen: no-one had been around the garden for eons, she was probably the first to find the gate.
Judging by the dead leaves still peppering the ground, it must still be early spring in this world. There was a faint vibration on the surface of the water, as if invisible instruments, deep in the ground, were playing a far away melody. But there was no sound.
She’d escaped from the horror, down under the bridge, and now she was in this lonely spot, feeling that, there, she was safe. A flock of starlings flew high above in the blue sky: beyond the walls, there was life.
Her eyes followed the little stream, encased between the old stones of the path. The crystal clear water was flowing, very slowly, to disappear beyond the wall that seemed to surround the garden.
Then she realised that the gate she’d walked through, a little earlier, was no longer there. Now she felt a presence, silent, observing, maybe curious, from some hidden place behind the stream…