Chapter 10 - Work to be done

Tilly arranged a few more items on the table: a delicate Art Deco perfume bottle, a set of tarnished silver candlesticks, a pair of carved bookends, and a porcelain jewelry box with a faded floral design. Happy arrived with his usual easy smile and a worn leather portfolio slung over one shoulder. Aphid, perched on a nearby stool, watched with interest as Happy looked over the selection, occasionally picking up an item to inspect it closely.

“These smaller pieces work best,” he said, examining the perfume bottle before carefully placing it in his bag. “They’re easier to clean up and photograph in my little home studio. Eventually, we’ll need to tackle the bigger things, but that’ll be more of a project.”

Tilly’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve got a studio?”

Happy nodded. “Yeah, just a small setup at home. I take photos under good lighting, get the angles right… it makes all the difference. For online sales, a good photo can turn a maybe into a definite yes.” He pulled out his phone, showing Tilly a few recent listings he’d posted. “And so far, it’s working—I’ve sold four pieces on eBay and two through Etsy.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Tilly said, scrolling through the listings. “Why the two different sites?”

Happy pointed at the images. “They each have their crowd. eBay’s good for functional items like these bookends. People there are more likely to search for deals or something practical for a collection. Etsy, though, draws people who are looking for vintage decor and curated items, like the perfume bottle. It’s a different vibe.”

Aphid leaned over, eyeing the photos with interest. “So you’ve got a knack for spotting what’ll sell?”

“Years of practice,” he said, setting his phone down. “But I also take a lot of pictures to research online—seeing what similar pieces go for on each site. If I’m unsure, I have an appraiser friend I run things by to get a sense of the real value.”

He glanced back at the table, selecting a few more items with a practiced eye: the candlesticks, a small porcelain box, and a brass letter opener. “Pieces like these can go for a few hundred bucks if they’re from around the late ’20s or early ’30s. People love that era right now.”

Tilly nodded. “I’ll have to keep an eye out for anything else in that price range when we clear out more rooms.”

Happy tucked the last item carefully into his portfolio. “So, how’s the restoration coming along? Still knee-deep in repairs?”

“More like neck-deep,” Tilly said. “Every time we fix one thing, three other things break. And some parts of the house feel like they’re pushing back against the changes.”

Happy chuckled, setting his bag down and looking around the room. “These old places do seem to have a mind of their own,” he said. “I don’t know how you keep up with it all.”

Tilly shrugged. “I’m just trying to tackle one thing at a time, but it feels endless. Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Happy nodded, glancing at the worn details around the kitchen—the old fixtures, the faded woodwork. “Well, I’d bet none of us started out knowing exactly what we were doing. I sure didn’t.”

Aphid looked up with interest. “So you didn’t always do this kind of work?”

“No, not at all.” Happy gave a small laugh. “I worked a steady job for over 20 years, in a completely different line of work. It was predictable and stable, but… well, it wasn’t exactly fulfilling.” He paused, picking up one of the porcelain pieces on the table, examining it with a practiced eye. “Then I got laid off. And instead of just looking for the same kind of job again, I thought maybe it was a chance to do something different.”

Tilly raised her eyebrows. “So you just… started over?”

“Pretty much,” he replied, setting the piece down gently. “I packed up, drove west without a specific plan, and ended up here in Santa Creda. Figured, if I was going to make a fresh start, I might as well go all the way with it. So I started introducing myself as Happy. My real name’s Beuford, but I wanted something with a bit more… optimism. Maybe something that could set the tone for the new chapter, you know?”

Aphid tilted her head, a slight grin forming. “Now that’s a rebranding story. I mean, my mom literally named me after a parasite because she thought it sounded cute. Thanks, Mom.”

They all shared a laugh, and Tilly glanced back at Happy, her head tilting thoughtfully. “Happy suits you. I like it.”

Happy shrugged, adjusting his portfolio with a small nod. “Thanks. Works for me.” He took out his phone again, scrolling to his Venmo app. “By the way, I’ve got the payment from the latest sales here. I like to transfer payments in person so there’s no confusion about amounts or whether it went through.”

“I appreciate how straightforward you make this,” Tilly said. “My mom’s been dragging her feet about the bit of money I’m supposed to get, and I think she’s doing it to keep things tight so I’ll feel pressured to sell the house.” She gave a small shrug, looking away. “It’s like she doesn’t think I can handle it.”

Happy looked over, watching her for a moment. “Have you asked her outright why she’s holding back?”

Aphid paused, her eyes darting back to him. “No… I haven’t.”

“Well, then you don’t know,” he said, adjusting his portfolio again as he slipped his phone into his pocket. “Might be worth finding out. And in the meantime,” he added, with a small nod, “I’ll try to keep you covered.”

Somewhere past two in the morning, Tilly eased open the back door, stepping quietly out of August House and into the cool, dense air of the garden. Behind her, the house stood in near darkness, save for the faint glow of lights from an upstairs window. Three college roommates, each on their own schedules, meant someone always seemed to be awake, a sliver of light casting shadows across the hallway floors. She’d waited until everything felt quiet enough, the lights dim enough, to slip away unnoticed.

The stone steps were cool beneath her bare feet, slick with a thin layer of dew. She hesitated, taking in the shadows that filled the garden, draping the paths and blending into the trees. She wasn’t sure why it felt strange, stepping outside like this. It was her garden, her house. Yet the thought of her roommates catching her out here in the dark, maybe without a stitch of clothing, gave her pause.

She exhaled, her hands loosening at her sides as she tried to release the knot of tension under her ribcage. Maybe they wouldn’t find it strange, or maybe that didn’t matter. This garden belonged to her, an entire world beyond the house, where the rules shifted with the shadows. She breathed in the earthy scent of damp leaves and moss, the air settling cool and crisp as she took her first steps along the path.

The stone pathway unfolded beneath her feet, guiding her through clusters of ivy and wild bushes that had crept well beyond their borders. Faint scents of lavender and thyme drifted up as she moved past, stirred by the cool night air. The heart of the garden—the fountain she could just make out in the dimness—drew her forward, and she could see the outline of the fairy statue, wings lifted, fixed in place as though waiting for some unseen cue.

As she moved further from the house, a chill crept along her spine, the grass and scattered stones damp and rough under her steps. She glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of habit, half-expecting to see one of her roommates at the window. But the house stood quietly behind her, its tall, darkened windows facing inward.

Tilly moved deeper into the garden, the cool night air settling against her bare shoulders and arms as she left the glow of the house behind. The last time she’d come out here, she’d found a clearing—a place where the trees opened enough to reveal a wide patch of sky. Tonight, she passed that spot, her steps leading her further into an area the landscapers hadn’t touched, where everything felt denser, more hidden. Here, vines stretched across the ground, low branches arched over the path, blocking the sky and casting tangled shadows.

The ground became uneven, stones and twisted roots pressing against her feet as she moved further into the depths of the garden. She paused, listening to the rustling leaves and occasional quick movement of something unseen. The darkness felt heavy here, each familiar sound carrying something she couldn’t quite name.

After a moment, she spotted a narrow patch of earth, partially cleared and just large enough to lie down. She lowered herself carefully, feeling the cool, damp press of soil against her back, grounding her in the quiet, uneven space. The branches above interlocked closely, forming a thick canopy that left only a few gaps where faint stars flickered. She lay back, stretching out her arms so her fingertips grazed the rough texture of dirt and scattered leaves, small stones pressing into her palms.

The night air settled over her, colder now that she was on the ground, and she exhaled, letting her breaths grow long and slow. A breeze stirred the branches overhead, making a low creaking sound. She listened to the sounds around her—the faint hum of insects, the rustle of leaves—but occasionally a shift or a crack sounded closer than expected, something moving just beyond her line of sight.

The sky above began to change. At first, it was subtle, the stars seeming to tremble, but soon they began to drift, sliding into new, unrecognizable clusters, their light shifting and flickering. A dark green tint seeped into the sky, filling the spaces between stars, deepening until it felt like a dense canopy pressing down, both vast and enclosed. She blinked, trying to adjust, but with each breath, the garden around her felt less familiar, the air sharpening with a faint metallic scent.

Her body grew heavier, her limbs slack against the ground as a wave of exhaustion crept through her, slow and consuming. She tried to move, to sit up, but every effort felt like pushing against lead, her muscles unresponsive. She lay still, watching the strange, green-tinged sky, feeling the earth’s coolness sink deeper into her skin.

Then, from the depths of the garden, she heard a faint crunch, a deliberate footstep breaking the silence. Her pulse quickened, and she tried again to lift her head, to turn, but her body felt heavier still, sinking further into the ground. The footsteps grew closer, slow and steady, moving with the measured weight of someone—or something—approaching. She could feel each step pressing into the earth, carrying with it a presence that settled heavily around her.

The footsteps stopped, just behind her, the silence deepening as if holding its breath. She lay there, her breath caught, feeling the air grow colder, her skin prickling as though brushed by an unseen hand. She sensed something crouch beside her, its weight pressing faintly against the ground next to her shoulder.

A voice whispered through the air, soft as the wind, yet close enough to feel against her ear. The words drifted around her, impossible yet clear, each one carrying a weight that pressed deeper into her consciousness.

“Give me your name.”

The voice was quiet but held a strange resonance, as though it came from some hidden depth in the garden itself. Her lips parted, her voice barely a whisper, and with the last remnants of strength, she murmured, “Tilly.”

As the sound of her own name left her lips, an overwhelming heaviness descended over her. Her vision darkened, her limbs sinking deeper into the earth, held down by an unseen force. The green-tinted sky faded above, the stars slipping further away, the last threads of her awareness fading as her mind slipped into silence.

She stirred, her eyes slowly opening to the dim, green-tinged light above. She was no longer lying in the tangled depths of the garden but instead in a small clearing, the ground soft beneath her. Around her, the garden appeared alive in an unsettling way—everywhere she looked, blossoms were unfurling, though their colors were muted, drained of life under the strange, dark green sky. The flowers bent faintly toward her, motionless and still, their pale hues adding to the eerie quiet.

Some strength had returned to her limbs, yet her body remained weighted, her movements slow and heavy. She managed to shift slightly, propping herself up on one elbow as she took in her surroundings. That was when she noticed the figure looming above her.

The fairy was much larger than any she’d seen in books, those dainty creatures painted in delicate pastels. This one towered over her, tall and muscular, her presence filling the clearing with an undeniable command. Shadows gathered across the fairy’s powerful frame, and she felt the size and strength of the creature, real and inescapable.

The fairy leaned in, her face partially obscured in the dim light. Her voice was low and steady, merging with the hum of the night air. She spoke with a tone that carried both authority and expectation.

“What is your name?”

Her breath caught. The question landed like a stone in her mind, reverberating through her. Her mouth opened, but for a moment, no answer came, only a hollow feeling of absence.

“I… I don’t know,” she murmured, the words feeling unfamiliar, slipping from her lips with an emptiness that surprised her. “I think I lost it.”

The fairy’s gaze sharpened, a small, faint smile crossing her lips, though her eyes remained unreadable. “You didn’t lose it,” she said, her tone firm. “You gave it to me of your own free will. Your name is the key to you. I own it now, and therefore, I own your key. Do you want it back?”

Her heart gave a weak, uncertain beat. The answer unsettled her, but her voice remained steady, her mind unable to grasp any way to challenge the fairy’s words. She could feel the weight of the truth in them, though its shape eluded her, like a shadow she couldn’t bring into focus.

“Yes, please.”

The fairy nodded. “I will give it back, but in exchange, you will give me the answer to five questions. I will not ask them until you agree, but know that this will cost you a piece of yourself, a piece I have no plans to return. A piece of you will reside with me, permanently. And the reverse will be true—a part of me will fill the space you free up.”

The fairy’s intense gaze held her. She hesitated. “Why are you doing this?”

The fairy shook her head. “You don’t get questions, only me. Do you agree, or do you wish to remain nameless?”

She thought for a long time. Finally, she said, “I agree.”

The fairy smiled. “The deal is made. What do you long for most?”

The answer rose unbidden, slipping from her lips before she could stop it. “To find a purpose,” she said. “Something that’s worth everything else, worth the time, worth all the… uncertainty.” Her voice drifted, the sentence breaking into fragments as she continued. “I think… I think I’d like to know if there’s something—something I’m supposed to be. Maybe it’s just nothing. Something other people see, but I don’t.”

With each word, a faint steadiness returned to her breath. She sat a little straighter, her hands pressing lightly into the soft earth. The fairy reached down, her hand tracing a small, sharp rune into the soil—a mark resembling two interlocking circles, connected by a thin, jagged line.

The fairy’s gaze narrowed, as though confirming something already suspected. She pressed on with her second question. “What are you most afraid of?”

Her eyes drifted, images surfacing—faces, shadows, places she recognized but couldn’t place. “That… I don’t really matter,” she replied, her tone distant yet precise. “That everything I do will disappear, and no one would notice. Sometimes I think of people I used to know, ones who slipped away, and I wonder if they remember me.” Her voice softened, trailing into almost a murmur. “Or if it’s only me who carries that.”

The air felt lighter around her, and she took a deeper breath, her shoulders losing some of their stiffness. The fairy tilted her head, her gaze focused, studying her. She pressed her fingers into the ground again, drawing a shape with two angled lines meeting in a sharp point, like the peak of a mountain.

The third question slipped into strange, unrelated territory.

“How often do you dream of mirrors?” the fairy asked, her voice holding the same steady tone, though the question felt jarring in its simplicity.

She blinked, and her answer came with that same detached calm. “Often,” she replied, the word pulling her into a memory. “I see myself, but it’s not really me. Or it is, but… she’s different. I’ll catch myself moving strangely, or the reflection changes, looking a little older or younger. Once, I think she spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear her. I wanted to, but she was gone.” Her words drifted off, as if she’d lost the thread of thought.

She felt the faintest trace of warmth spread through her fingertips, and her hands pressed a little more firmly into the ground as she regained a sense of herself. The fairy’s fingers drew a spiral with small, jagged lines surrounding it, enclosed in a thin oval shape.

The fairy nodded and asked her fourth question. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question landed strangely, yet the answer rose in her mind. “Gray,” she replied. “Not the dark, heavy kind, but the light, soft gray that comes just before dawn. It feels… open, like anything could happen.” Her tone remained colorless, but the image stayed with her, and she felt her pulse even out, her breath settling.

The fairy’s gaze did not waver, her eyes still sharp as she asked, “What is your secret shame?”

Her voice emerged steady, as if the truth were pulling itself from her without effort. “I am a thief.”

The fairy’s fingers moved again, her hand tracing a series of angled lines in the soil.

“I stole a necklace, silver, with a clasp that always caught on things. I took it from a room where the curtains were blue.” The fairy marked the ground with a rune, two connected loops with a jagged line cutting through them.

“A pebble with a crack that looked like a lightning bolt. I found it on a shelf behind a little wooden box that played music. I took it because it was the nicest thing I’d ever seen on a shelf like that.” The fairy drew a spiral, the line etched clean and smooth.

“A key from the back of a drawer, with a piece of red string tied to it. I tried it in every door I could find. The key’s still on my keychain.” Another rune appeared, narrow and pointed, sharp at the edges.

“A coin, one I’d only seen once before. It had a bird stamped on it, and I could tell it was old because the edges were soft.” The fairy traced a half-circle with lines radiating outward.

“An envelope sealed in red wax, with words I couldn’t read. I opened it just to see the way the letters curled. I threw it in the ocean.” The fairy’s fingers moved, forming a shape with open lines extending from either side.

“A jar of marbles, clear and blue, from a box that smelled of dust. I thought if I shook them, they sounded nice.” The fairy pressed a small, round mark into the soil.

Her tone softened as she continued, each item drifting up like a memory laid bare.

“A feather from a cabinet, dark green. I put it under my pillow, hoping I would dream of flying. I didn’t.” Another rune appeared beside the others, long and slender, the shape of a feather’s spine with lines fanning outward.

She paused, her breath steady, her hands resting on the earth. “I stole all these things for no reason I could understand. I didn’t need them, but I needed to take them.”

The fairy watched her, each rune in the soil glistening faintly in the green-tinted light, marking her confessions. She finished quietly, her final words barely more than a whisper.

The fairy looked at Tilly for a long moment and said, “Close your eyes.”

She complied, and a moment later, she felt a soft touch on her face, then deeper, settling within her mind. Then the world disappeared for a long moment. In that suspended silence, a voice came through: “Tilly.”

Tilly opened her eyes slowly, reluctantly, pulling herself into the light. Pale green light angled over her, filling the narrow patch of earth where she lay. Cool, damp soil pressed against her skin, her body weighted and limbs heavy, as though some part of her still hadn’t fully woken. Gradually, she pushed herself upright, blinking to clear the haze that clung to her mind.

She looked around, taking in the tangled vines and dense shrubs surrounding her, the garden close on all sides. Her gaze drifted upward, catching sight of the sky’s pale green tint, a shade she didn’t remember seeing before. The question of whether the sky was supposed to look that way floated at the edge of her mind, fading before she could fully consider it.

Lowering her eyes, she noticed her clothes scattered nearby, faintly damp from the garden air. She didn’t remember taking them off, though she knew she’d done it before—wandering out at night to feel the garden without anything between herself and the world around her. She gathered her clothes into her arms, holding them close as she rose unsteadily. Silence hung around her, settled and still.

She started toward the fountain, following the twists of the path. Each plant and branch seemed slightly off in ways she couldn’t fully place. The leaves held a faint sheen, catching the light in a way that looked almost unnatural, though the ground beneath her feet was dry. Nearby flowers—open wide with petals turned outward—angled toward her, watching her movements. A faint scent drifted through the air, something warm, vanilla-like, but she couldn’t spot any source. She kept moving, unable to shake the feeling that the garden had somehow changed, though she couldn’t pinpoint how.

Her thoughts drifted, circling around questions that wouldn’t take shape. A strange urge rose within her, a need to say her name aloud, to ground herself here. The impulse grew stronger, yet each time she tried, the words stopped just out of reach, locked within the silence.

Finally, she reached the fountain. The familiar statue rose from the overgrown greenery, its stone figure still and watchful, with the fairy’s outstretched wings casting sharp shadows over the basin. She lowered herself to the edge of the fountain, letting the weight of the stone press into her palms, feeling the solid ground beneath her feet. Staring down, she focused on the scattered leaves near her toes, forcing herself to center. She took a breath, narrowing her thoughts, determined to hear her own name. It felt like reaching through layers of fog.

Her mouth opened, her throat catching as she formed the sound. “Missalia.”

The word slipped out, sharp and strange, wrong from the moment it left her lips. She stilled, listening to the name as it lingered in the silence. Missalia. It sounded foreign, yet there was a pull to it, something that felt oddly familiar, almost tempting. Her brow creased. Could it have been right, in some way? She opened her mouth and said it again, “Missalia,” slower this time, hearing each syllable carefully.

But the name sat there, hollow and distant, like a piece of clothing that wasn’t hers. No, Missalia wasn’t right; it didn’t hold any weight for her. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something, if only she could remember what.

She sat there for a long stretch, trying to sift through her thoughts, trying to decide if this name held any part of her. Finally, her mind drifted to another name, a name that felt more familiar yet strange in its own way.

“Matilda.”

The sound was closer, nearly hers, but it still felt slightly removed, a name she might answer to but never quite inhabit. Matilda, the name that showed up on official papers and class rosters, a name with weight and formality, a name used at a distance. It felt stiff, careful, like something she’d wear for others to see. Matilda belonged to her, but in the way an old coat belongs in the back of a closet. The name didn’t sit easily on her.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, resting on the edge of the fountain. Her fingers pressed into the cold, rough stone, grounding her, but the name “Matilda” still felt wrong, like something foreign. She traced the edge of the fountain with her fingertips, trying to make sense of this strange feeling, the discomfort curling within her.

The garden seemed to grow quieter, as if even the faintest sounds had faded, leaving only her breath and the soft rhythm of her fingers tapping against the stone. She sat there, gripping the fountain’s edge, and forced herself to try “Matilda” again, hoping it would settle, hoping it would feel real.

“Matilda,” she whispered, the name catching in her throat, carrying none of the warmth she expected. It hung in the air, still and flat, a name that felt polished and deliberate, a name that demanded she stand straighter, act older, and erase everything that made her… her. Matilda felt like the name she’d grown up carrying, the version of herself she’d offered to the world, but it didn’t reach deep enough. There was something else, some part of her that had always been hidden beneath that name, waiting to be found.

She stared at her reflection in the fountain’s water, at the faint outline of her face distorted by ripples. Wasn’t she Matilda? Hadn’t she always been? And yet, that name felt like a mask, a form she’d borrowed. The sound didn’t belong here in the quiet of the garden, didn’t resonate with the green-tinted sky or the thick scent of vanilla lingering in the air.

Her fingers traced the stone absently, her mind drifting to the parts of herself she rarely examined, memories of other times she’d tried on names that never quite fit. She took another breath, steadying herself, feeling the cold stone beneath her fingers, the garden surrounding her, and focused again. Another name came to mind, one softer, one she hadn’t used in a long time but felt woven with warmth, familiarity, simplicity.

She closed her eyes and said, quietly, “Tilly.”

It came easily, slipping into the silence with no resistance, filling the space she’d been trying to reach. Tilly. Her name. The one that didn’t require formality, didn’t need to be measured or weighed. It was the name she’d always used when she wasn’t trying to be anything for anyone else. Her name felt like home, steady and sure, anchoring her back in this moment, grounding her to something real.

A rush of relief passed over her, like the sudden release of a held breath, as she felt the tension ease from her shoulders. The doubts, the confusion around her name, faded, leaving only the comfort of something known, something hers. Tilly. Her name. Her real name.

She opened her eyes, looking around at the garden with new clarity. The colors had deepened; the sky had shifted from pale green to a warm, golden hue, casting long shadows across the clearing. She watched, her thoughts calm, as the realization settled over her: the sun was setting. More time had slipped away, the hours vanishing without notice.

In the growing dusk, the garden felt changed, as if her name had unlocked something around her. The trees stood taller, shadows pooling at their roots, and the vanilla scent lingered, thickening the air. Tilly sat in the quiet, holding the knowledge of her name close, letting it settle fully, a small anchor in a place where so much had been lost to the unknown.

Tilly stepped back into the house, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around her, though everything seemed oddly bright. The surfaces—the countertops, the fridge, the light on the sink—looked a little too vivid, the edges almost too sharp. She moved to the fridge and opened it, squinting at the contents, each item seeming to reflect a little too much light. Her hand drifted over to the bread and mustard, pulling them out slowly, as if she were piecing together a familiar ritual.

She placed them on the counter and reached for a slice of bread, her gaze wandering over the countertop as if noticing it for the first time. “The kitchen looks… different,” she murmured to herself, her voice low. “Brighter than usual. Or… maybe not.” Her fingers pressed absently into the bread, the texture grounding her, even if the rest of the room felt slightly off.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Aphid walked into the kitchen, her expression warm, though her eyes quickly narrowed as she looked at Tilly. Tilly’s gaze lingered on Aphid’s face, taking in the faint purple tint in her hair, which seemed to catch the light in an oddly vivid way, almost too sharp. Tilly blinked, feeling the edges of reality blur slightly as she focused on Aphid’s features.

“Hey, Tilly,” Aphid said, leaning against the counter, though her eyes remained on Tilly with a hint of concern. “How’s your day been?”

Tilly paused, her hand stilled over the bread. She looked up, realizing she had no idea how to answer. “Um… my day,” she echoed, her voice uncertain. “Well, I was… outside, I think. Maybe? I don’t… remember why.” She looked down at her hands, holding a slice of bread. “I’m making a sandwich,” she muttered, as if naming her action would help make it feel real.

Aphid’s gaze sharpened as she took in Tilly’s appearance. Her hair was disheveled, bits of leaves clinging to the ends, and there were small scratches scattered along her forearms, barely visible against the faint smudges of dirt covering her skin. She noticed a thin line of dirt near Tilly’s collar, trailing faintly along her neck.

“Tilly, are you feeling okay?” Aphid asked, her voice softer now, gentle but filled with worry. “You look… kind of out of it. And your arms…” She reached forward, brushing her fingers over one of the scratches. “Did something happen?”

“Out of it?” Tilly repeated, her voice a whisper as she looked at Aphid, her gaze drifting to Aphid’s hair again. “You look… different.” Her voice was distant. “Did you change your hair? It’s purple, right?” She blinked, struggling to focus. “And… the kitchen light… it’s too bright.” She looked around, almost squinting at the walls, as if expecting them to pulse with the brightness. “I feel… strange. Everything feels strange today.”

Aphid took a step closer, her hand hovering over Tilly’s arm as she took in the details: the smudges of dirt, the faint scratches, the way Tilly’s hair was tangled, with traces of something like soil near her hairline. “Tilly, did you fall or something? You look like you’ve been… well, outside, I guess. But… a little rougher than usual.”

Tilly looked down at her arm, noticing the scratches as if for the first time. “I was… maybe. In the garden?” She tilted her head, confusion flickering over her face. “The air smelled different. It smelled like… vanilla.” Her eyes drifted back to her sandwich, her fingers brushing over the slices of bread. “I’m making a sandwich. I think that’s… normal.”

Aphid’s concern deepened, her gaze steady as she studied her friend. “Tilly, this isn’t normal. You look a little… out of it. You’ve got scratches on your arms, and you’re covered in dirt.” She reached up, carefully brushing a leaf from Tilly’s hair. “I think maybe you should get checked out. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”

Tilly blinked, feeling a faint irritation, but it was muffled, buried beneath a fog she couldn’t shake. “No… I just… lost track of time, maybe.” She touched her own hair, her fingers brushing over the mess of leaves and dirt, a detail that felt both obvious and unimportant.

“Are you sure?” Aphid pressed, her tone both gentle and concerned. “You seem… like you’re not here with me. Maybe just a quick checkup, you know? You really don’t seem like yourself.”

Tilly looked down at the sandwich, her fingers smearing mustard on the bread, then noticed the small dirt marks on her hands. She frowned, watching the patterns as if they might reveal something. “I was… outside. I think I… saw you? No… that’s not right. I was alone.” She glanced up at Aphid, her gaze distant. “I saw the garden. Maybe.”

Aphid’s eyes softened, her concern deepening as she kept her hand on Tilly’s arm. “Tilly, please. You’re scaring me a little. Just let me take you to get checked out, okay? Just to be safe.”

Tilly wanted to brush her off, to insist she was fine, but the brightness of the room pressed in on her, everything sharp and jarring, while her own thoughts slipped through her fingers like they belonged to someone else. Her gaze drifted back to Aphid’s hair, the purple tint catching her eye again. “It’s… very purple,” she murmured, almost to herself, as though the color were the only solid thing around her.

Aphid nodded, her expression patient but firm. “Yes, it’s purple. And we’re going to get you checked out. Come on, let’s go. Just to make sure you’re okay.”

Tilly nodded slowly, the motion heavy, as if her head were pressing through a cloud. “Maybe… maybe you’re right.” She looked around the kitchen once more, at the sharp brightness, the edges of everything too vivid, and let Aphid gently lead her, the strange clarity of the kitchen falling away behind her.

As Aphid guided Tilly toward the door, Tilly’s gaze drifted sideways, her eyes searching Aphid’s face with a soft intensity. Her brow furrowed a hint of something almost childlike in the way she seemed to study Aphid as though seeing her for the first time.

“Are you… my friend?” Tilly asked, her voice hesitant, as if testing the words.

Aphid’s expression softened, a gentle smile touching her lips. “Of course I’m your friend, Tilly,” she said, her voice steady. “Why would you ask that?”

Tilly paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know… I mean, do you even… do you even stand me?” Her voice was barely a whisper, tinged with uncertainty. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I don’t… fit.”

Aphid looked at her, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and compassion. “Tilly, of course I can stand you. You’re… you’re my friend, okay? I like you just as you are.” She reached out, squeezing Tilly’s hand in a reassuring gesture, her touch gentle and grounding.

Tilly hesitated, her eyes flickering up to meet Aphid’s, a faint, tentative smile appearing. “Like… Bridget Jones?” she asked, her tone soft, with a glimmer of hope behind it.

Aphid’s brows knitted together, but her smile didn’t waver. “Yes, exactly like Bridget Jones,” she said, though it was clear she wasn’t quite sure what Tilly meant. “Just as you are.”

The response seemed to settle Tilly, and she took a small, relieved breath. “Can I… can I have a hug?” she asked, her voice small, almost timid.

Aphid didn’t hesitate, pulling Tilly into a warm embrace, her arms wrapping around her with a steady, comforting strength. Tilly leaned in, resting her head on Aphid’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed as she took in the familiar, gentle scent of vanilla lingering in the air around her. She held onto Aphid tightly, letting the warmth of the embrace settle over her, grounding her more than anything else had since she’d come inside.

They stayed that way for a long moment, Tilly’s arms holding on a bit tighter, as though she feared letting go might mean losing something vital. After a pause, her voice broke the quiet, a quiet admission that hung in the air between them.

“I laugh when Opal makes fun of you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I’m… I’m a bad friend. I’m sorry.”

Aphid pulled back just slightly, her hands resting on Tilly’s shoulders as she looked her in the eye, her expression tender. “Tilly, don’t worry about that right now,” she said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Tilly’s face. “That’s not important. We’re going to take care of you, okay?”

Tilly gave a slight nod, a faint look of relief passing over her face as she took a slow, steady breath. Her gaze lingered on Aphid’s face, her voice soft and unguarded. “You smell really nice,” she said quietly, the words slipping out without hesitation. “Please… please take me to the hospital.”

Aphid nodded, her arm slipping around Tilly’s shoulder, offering her steady support as they walked toward the door.

Tilly lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, each one blurring into the next, like trying to count clouds drifting by. Time felt strange here—stretched, slipping away before she could grasp it. She knew there had been doctors and nurses, tests and questions, bright lights, and a sense of drifting through her own thoughts. But each memory fell apart as soon as she tried to focus.

The door opened softly, and a woman entered. She was young, only a few years older than Tilly, with dark blond hair that flowed in waves down her back, catching the light in a way that softened the hospital’s starkness. Her presence was calm, steady, yet her eyes held an intensity that felt grounding and unsettling all at once. She moved with quiet assurance, taking a seat beside Tilly, folding her hands in her lap.

The woman studied her, her gaze quiet yet probing. “What’s your name?” she asked, her voice gentle, carrying a subtle weight that felt more like a command than a question.

Tilly blinked, feeling the answer bubble up before she could think to stop it. “Tilly… Missalia August,” she replied, the name slipping out in a rush, as if it had been waiting to escape. She paused, a flicker of something like confusion crossing her face. “No… my middle name is Anne. It’s from my mom. Missalia… I don’t know where that came from, but… I guess it’s me. It sounded right. But not right. It’s strange.”

The woman tilted her head, a faint smile curving her lips. “Missalia,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I like that. Do you mind if I call you Missalia?”

Tilly hesitated, feeling a strange, inexplicable pull toward the name, a compulsion rising within her, making it feel impossible to disagree. “That’s… my name,” she murmured, even as a small part of her knew it wasn’t entirely true.

The woman’s smile deepened, her eyes brightening with something like satisfaction. “Very well, Missalia,” she said, letting the name settle between them like a secret. She waited a beat, then asked, “Tell me about the garden.”

Tilly’s mind jolted, her thoughts scattering. She didn’t remember mentioning the garden, but the question brought up images she couldn’t suppress. Before she could think to stop herself, the words began spilling out, a string of images and sensations, disjointed but vivid, tumbling over each other as if compelled to bring every detail to the surface.

“It was… dark, but not fully,” she began, her gaze drifting as if seeing it all again. “The sky was this strange green, dark but with light—like the whole world was covered by it. There were flowers, they were everywhere, only they didn’t look alive… they were faded, drained. Their colors were washed out, like they weren’t really there, but they were moving.” Her fingers twisted in the blanket, her voice growing softer. “And the paths… there were paths, twisting, endless. I couldn’t tell where they led, like they didn’t go anywhere at all.”

She hesitated, feeling herself sinking further into the memory, each detail pulling her deeper. “There’s a statue… a fairy. She’s poised, her arms stretched up, her wings reaching out behind her like she’s ready to take flight. But she’s so still. Her face… it’s worn from the years, but she’s watching, like she’s waiting. I remember feeling like she knew I was there, but I didn’t know why.”

The words kept coming, spilling out faster than she could hold them back. “And the fountain… it’s hidden under vines, the stone covered in moss. I remember touching it, feeling the dampness, the roughness. I sat there, looking at her, at the fairy, just feeling… like everything was waiting for something.” She glanced up at the woman, her brow furrowing. “I didn’t even know why I was there. I took off my clothes without thinking… I felt like I had to, like the garden needed me to. The air was cold, and the ground was wet, but I lay down anyway, right on the earth.”

Her hand drifted to her collarbone, her voice growing softer. “The stars… they were shifting, like they weren’t in the same place. The trees were all around me, the branches hanging low. And the ground… I could feel every part of it pressing into me—the stones, the grass, the soil.” She stopped, looking down, feeling the strangeness of her own words, like they belonged to someone else.

The woman’s gaze never wavered, her expression calm, though there was something almost triumphant in her eyes. “Are you certain that’s everything?” she asked, her tone soft, yet carrying a weight that urged Tilly to search further, to bring more to the surface.

“I… I think so,” she murmured, though she felt a nagging sense that she hadn’t fully answered. The compulsion to speak more rose up, and before she could stop herself, she added, “There was… a voice. It called me, I think. But it didn’t say Tilly… it said ‘Missalia.’ Like it knew me, but not me. Like… it was waiting for me to say it back. And I did. I said it back, even though it didn’t feel like mine. I felt… like I belonged there, but… like I was supposed to be somewhere else. I don’t know.”

A faint, satisfied smile crossed the woman’s face, and she waited a beat, then asked gently, “Are you… missing anything, Missalia? Anything you can’t explain?”

The question gripped her, and Tilly felt her hand move up to her collarbone again, feeling the emptiness there, as though searching for something invisible. “Yes,” she whispered, the words dragging out of her as though pulled. “It’s like… there’s a hollow place, somewhere inside me, and I don’t know what’s supposed to fill it. Like… like something was taken, but I don’t know what.”

The woman nodded, her voice almost a whisper. “The hospital can’t help you with that feeling,” she said softly. “They don’t know what you’re experiencing. But I do.”

Tilly looked at her, confusion mixing with a strange sense of familiarity, a pull that felt both comforting and deeply unsettling. “Are you… are you a doctor?” she managed to ask, though the question felt odd, out of place in the presence of this woman.

The woman smiled faintly, with a glimmer of amusement. “If I were a doctor, I would have introduced myself as Doctor Ellen,” she replied smoothly. “I’m not associated with the hospital.” Her gaze softened. “They can’t help you, Missalia. But I can.”

The weight of her words settled over Tilly like a soft pressure, making her heart beat faster, though she couldn’t quite say why. She wanted to ask what kind of help she meant, to demand an explanation, but her voice felt caught somewhere deep inside, like words she hadn’t learned to say yet.

All she could do was watch the woman, feeling herself drawn to the calm assurance in her eyes, as if standing at the edge of a place both strange and familiar, waiting for her to step inside.

Ellen’s gaze softened, her voice warm and measured. “What’s your favorite color, Missalia?”

The question felt strange, almost childish, yet the compulsion to answer tugged at Tilly, like a thread winding through her thoughts, forcing her to pull up each answer until she could give the right one. She took a breath, her eyes narrowing in thought.

“Blue,” she started, her voice uncertain, like she was testing the sound of it. “Not dark blue… but lighter, like the sky just after dawn.” She frowned, her head tilting slightly. “No, that’s not it.”

Ellen waited, silent, as Tilly’s gaze drifted, her mind cycling through colors as if she were flipping through a forgotten album.

“Green,” Tilly tried, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the hospital blanket. “Like the leaves in early spring when they’re still soft and… fragile.” She shook her head, her mouth twisting slightly. “No, not green either.”

She looked down, watching her own hand, her fingers flexing against the fabric, as if the sensation might help her settle on the answer. “Yellow,” she said next, her voice distant. “Like sunlight, warm… but not too bright. Soft yellow, the kind you feel against your skin.” A pause, and then a soft sigh. “No… no, that’s wrong too.”

Her mind wandered further, each answer slipping through her grasp as quickly as she found it. “Red,” she murmured, almost a whisper, the word leaving her lips before she could think. “Red like… like berries or… maybe roses?” Her brow furrowed, the answer vanishing as soon as she’d said it. “No… that’s not it either.”

She felt the weight of the question pressing in again, demanding something more. “Purple,” she muttered, her voice soft, almost defeated. “The kind you see in wildflowers, hidden away. But… no. No, that’s not right.”

A sigh left her, and she looked at Ellen with a trace of irritation. “I don’t have a favorite color,” she said at last, the words leaving her with a strange sense of relief. “It’s a silly question. Who on earth would have a favorite color?”

Ellen nodded, her expression steady and calm. “You’re right,” she said softly, her tone soothing. “It was a silly question.” She held Tilly’s gaze, her expression reassuring, as if that answer—like all the others—was exactly as it should be.

Tilly lay in the hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling tiles, each one blending into the next until they were indistinguishable, like clouds drifting by. Time felt strange here—stretched and warped, slipping past her without a shape she could hold onto. She knew there had been doctors and nurses, questions, bright lights, flashes of unfamiliar faces, but it all blurred together, scattered pieces she couldn’t fit back into place.

The door opened softly, and a woman stepped into the room. She looked only a few years older than Tilly, with waves of dark blond hair cascading down her back, catching the light and softening the room’s sterile edges. Her presence was calm, almost grounding, though her gaze held an intensity that felt both comforting and disconcerting. She moved with quiet assurance, taking a seat beside Tilly, folding her hands in her lap.

The woman studied her for a moment, her gaze warm but probing. “What’s your name?” she asked, her voice gentle, yet somehow it felt like a command.

Tilly blinked, feeling the answer rise up unbidden, as if it had been waiting on her lips. “Tilly… Missalia August,” she replied, the name slipping out as though it had been ready to escape. She hesitated, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. “No… my middle name is Anne. It’s from my mom. Missalia… I don’t know where that came from, but… I guess it’s me. It sounded right. But not right. It’s strange.”

The woman tilted her head, a faint smile curving her lips. “Missalia,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I like that. Do you mind if I call you Missalia?”

Tilly felt a strange, inexplicable pull toward the name, a compulsion rising within her, making it feel impossible to disagree. “That’s… my name,” she murmured, though a small part of her knew it wasn’t entirely true.

The woman’s smile softened, as though they had reached an understanding. “Very well, Missalia,” she said, letting the name settle between them like a secret. She waited a beat, then asked, “Tell me about the garden.”

Tilly’s mind jolted, her thoughts scattering. She didn’t remember mentioning the garden, but the question brought up images she couldn’t suppress. Before she could think to stop herself, words began spilling out, a string of images and sensations, disjointed but vivid, tumbling over each other as if compelled to bring every detail to the surface.

“It was… dark, but not fully,” she began, her gaze drifting as if seeing it all again. “The sky was this strange green, dark but with light—like the whole world was covered by it. There were flowers, they were everywhere, only they didn’t look alive… they were faded, drained. Their colors were washed out, like they weren’t really there, but they were moving.” Her fingers twisted in the blanket, her voice growing softer. “And the paths… there were paths, twisting, endless. I couldn’t tell where they led, like they didn’t go anywhere at all.”

She hesitated, feeling herself sinking further into the memory, each detail pulling her deeper. “There’s a statue… a fairy, I think, with her arms stretched up, her wings reaching out behind her like she’s ready to take flight. But she’s so still. Her face… it’s worn from the years, but she’s watching, like she’s waiting. I remember feeling like she knew I was there, but I didn’t know why.”

The words kept coming, spilling out faster than she could hold them back. “And the fountain… it’s hidden under vines, the stone covered in moss. I remember touching it, feeling the dampness, the roughness. I sat there, looking at her, at the fairy, just feeling… like everything was waiting for something.” She glanced up at the woman, her brow furrowing. “I didn’t even know why I was there. I took off my clothes without thinking… I felt like I had to, like the garden needed me to. The air was cold, and the ground was wet, but I lay down anyway, right on the earth.”

Her hand drifted to her collarbone, her voice growing softer. “The stars… they were shifting, like they weren’t in the same place. The trees were all around me, the branches hanging low. And the ground… I could feel every part of it pressing into me—the stones, the grass, the soil.” She stopped, looking down, feeling the strangeness of her own words, like they belonged to someone else.

The woman’s gaze never wavered, her expression calm, though there was something almost triumphant in her eyes. “Are you certain that’s everything?” she asked, her tone soft, yet carrying a weight that urged Tilly to search further, to bring more to the surface.

“I… I think so,” she murmured, though she felt a nagging sense that she hadn’t fully answered. The compulsion to speak more rose up, and before she could stop herself, she added, “There was… a voice. It called me, I think. But it didn’t say Tilly… it said ‘Missalia.’ Like it knew me, but not me. Like… it was waiting for me to say it back. And I did. I said it back, even though it didn’t feel like mine. I felt… like I belonged there, but… like I was supposed to be somewhere else. I don’t know.”

A faint nod from the woman, her expression firming with something like satisfaction. “I’m going to call you Tilly now,” she said. “Do you know why?”

Tilly blinked, feeling her own name like an anchor in the soft undercurrent of her thoughts. “Because… that’s who I am?” she replied, though the words came with a hint of doubt.

Ellen nodded slowly. “It is who you are,” she agreed, her tone steady. “But Missalia is a part of you now, too. If I had to guess, I believe you gave Missalia your name.” She paused, her expression turning serious. “Don’t do that again, Tilly. It gives them so much power. If you were anyone else, I’d tell you to leave Santa Creda and never look back. But that’s not in the cards for you.”

As Tilly absorbed this, Ellen’s hand moved again, reaching for a sprig of sage from a small bundle in her bag. She passed the sage over each of the symbols, as if sealing them, her movements practiced and precise, adding to the weight of her words.

Tilly’s gaze lingered on Ellen’s hand, the steady movement of her fingers over the runes. “I… can’t leave?”

Ellen’s eyes softened with a flicker of sympathy, though her expression held a firmness, as if stating a simple fact. “You are the owner of August House,” she said quietly, tracing the lines of the runes with her fingertips, reinforcing each mark. “The obligation would pull you back before you made it five miles out of town.”

Ellen’s hand moved smoothly, adding another line to the final rune, as though anchoring it to the bed, while her gaze remained steady. “Freddy left August House to you. I told him not to, but he wanted to protect it. He thought that by handing it over, he’d be safeguarding something he couldn’t fully control. But he should have told you what to expect, should have prepared you. I can’t say I have that much respect for Freddy… you’ve seen the state of the place.”

Tilly’s mind drifted back to the house, to its worn stones, cracked tiles, and faded wallpaper, and the way it had felt, pressing in on her, almost like it had been watching her.

Ellen’s gaze deepened, her fingers lingering on the sheet beside the runes as she watched Tilly’s face. “And the garden…” She paused, her voice lowering. “The garden existed long before August House. It was once called ‘The Grove’—a place known for its… unusual properties. August House was built to fence it in, to keep it contained.” She sighed. “Your great-great-grandfather… he was foolish, greedy, and thought he could capture it, own it. But he didn’t understand what he was dealing with.”

The words resonated, vibrating through Tilly, filling her with an uncomfortable truth. “So… I don’t own it?” she murmured, the enormity settling into her understanding.

Ellen’s eyes flashed, her tone resolute. “You don’t own the garden… Missalia. The garden owns you.”

The realization settled over Tilly, cold and heavy, like stones sinking in deep water. She stared at Ellen, her mind circling a single question, fragile yet insistent amid the weight of everything else. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Who… who are you?”

Ellen’s silence felt thick, charged with an unspoken barrier that Tilly could feel between them, like a warning she didn’t fully understand. Ellen’s face was unreadable, her eyes fixed and steady, the room seeming to grow smaller around them. Then, slowly, Ellen leaned forward, her face close enough that Tilly could see every line, every shadow cast along her skin.

As Ellen held her gaze, Tilly’s vision blurred, shifting almost imperceptibly until it seemed the flesh over Ellen’s face had thinned, faded. For one harrowing moment, she saw only bone—a stark, pale skull gazing back at her, empty eyes that seemed to see beyond sight itself. Shadows gathered in the hollows, and the outline of her lips had vanished, replaced by the rigid, unmoving line of a jawbone.

A deep, cold dread flooded through Tilly, pressing down on her chest, rooting her to the spot. She wanted to look away, to shut her eyes against the image, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear herself from the skeletal gaze fixed on her. Her breath caught, the air around her thickening, darkening, as though the room itself were closing in.

Ellen’s voice broke the silence, low and unyielding, carrying a resonance that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the room, beyond the world itself. “I’m the one who cleans up the messes.” The skeletal image held its shape for a breath longer, her hollow eyes glinting with a knowing light. “You’ll want to see as little of me as possible.”

Then, like a shadow lifting, Ellen’s face returned, her flesh filling back in, her expression settling into the calm, almost gentle composure she’d worn when she first entered the room. But the shadows around her lingered, thickening in the corners of the room, and Tilly’s pulse raced, her mind reeling from what she’d just seen.

Ellen’s gaze softened slightly, as if she hadn’t noticed Tilly’s shock or the vision that had just passed between them. Her expression grew almost reassuring, though the gravity in her eyes remained.

“You should be able to think clearly now,” Ellen said, her tone quiet but resolute, her fingers resting lightly on the sheet as though sealing her words. “I can’t change what happened to you, but you’ll be able to go back to your duties.”

She held Tilly’s gaze a moment longer. “August House is waiting for you.”

Tilly nodded. “Thank you for your help.”

Ellen got up and walked out of the room. It was such an ordinary thing to do all of a sudden.