The night had descended fully over Eldertree by the time Elara left the garden, yet she felt as though only moments had passed since she had stepped inside. The sky was a canvas of deep indigo, studded with stars that twinkled like distant fires, and the crescent moon hung low, casting a silver light over the village. The air was still, almost unnervingly so, as though the world itself had paused, caught in the grip of something unseen and unknowable.
Elara walked slowly back to her home, her thoughts churning with the events of the past hour—or had it been longer? Time felt distorted, stretched thin like taffy, and she couldn't shake the sensation that she had left something behind in the garden, something important. Her grandmother's voice, the brief glimpse of the woman beneath the tree, the whispers that had filled her mind—all of it swirled together in a confusing jumble, refusing to settle into any kind of order.
When she finally reached her small cottage on the outskirts of the village, Elara was exhausted, both physically and mentally. She pushed open the door, the familiar creak of the hinges offering a small comfort, and stepped inside. The hearth was cold, the fire long since burned out, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed deeper, more oppressive than usual.
Elara lit a candle, its small flame flickering uncertainly, and moved to the table where her grandmother's old journal lay open, pages yellowed with age and filled with the spidery scrawl of a lifetime's worth of notes and observations. She had found the journal among her grandmother's belongings after she passed, and it had quickly become one of her most treasured possessions. The pages were filled with everything from recipes for herbal remedies to stories of the old days, to warnings about places and things best left alone—like the garden.
She had read those entries countless times, but tonight, they took on a new significance. Elara sat down at the table and began to flip through the pages, her eyes scanning the familiar lines of text with a new intensity. She was looking for something, some clue or hint that would help her make sense of what had happened in the garden, something that could explain the voice, the whispers, the way time had seemed to shift and flow around her.
As she turned the pages, a small scrap of paper fell out from between the leaves and fluttered to the floor. Elara bent to pick it up, her breath catching in her throat as she saw what was written there. It was a sketch, done in her grandmother's careful hand, of the very tree she had seen in the garden—the ancient, twisted tree with roots that spread out like a web, and the strange symbols carved into the stone bench beneath it.
Below the sketch, in small, neat letters, were the words: "The Frozen Hours—beware the secrets they hold."
Elara's heart skipped a beat as she stared at the words. She had never seen this sketch before, and yet it was unmistakably the same tree, the same clearing. Her grandmother had known about the garden, had known about the tree and the symbols, and she had left this note as a warning. But what did it mean? What were the Frozen Hours, and what secrets did they hold?
The candle flickered as a draft of cool air swept through the room, and Elara shivered, suddenly feeling the weight of the night pressing in on her. She had the sense that she was standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, a mystery that stretched back farther than she could comprehend. The garden was more than just a place where time behaved strangely—it was a repository of forgotten knowledge, of secrets that had been buried for generations.
And now, for reasons she didn't fully understand, those secrets were beginning to unravel.
Elara folded the scrap of paper and slipped it back into the journal, her mind racing. She knew she couldn't stop now, not when she was so close to understanding. But she also knew she had to be careful. The garden was dangerous, in ways she was only beginning to grasp, and the voice of her grandmother—whether it had been a memory, a vision, or something more—had warned her not to dig too deeply.
But Elara had never been one to shy away from a challenge, and this mystery was too compelling to ignore. She felt a connection to the garden, a pull that went beyond mere curiosity. It was as though the garden was calling to her, urging her to uncover the truth, to piece together the fragments of the past that had been hidden for so long.
That night, sleep eluded her. She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind filled with thoughts of the garden, the tree, the Frozen Hours. What did it mean? What had her grandmother known that she hadn't shared with anyone else? And why did it feel as though time itself was slipping through her fingers, like sand in an hourglass?
When the first light of dawn crept through the window, Elara was no closer to answers, but she had made up her mind. She would return to the garden, and this time, she would not leave until she had uncovered its secrets.
***
The next day dawned bright and clear, the sky a brilliant blue with only a few wispy clouds drifting lazily overhead. It was a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the night before, and Elara found herself wondering if she had imagined it all—the whispers, the voice, the sense of time slipping away. But the sketch in her grandmother's journal was proof that it had been real, that something strange and powerful lurked within the garden's borders.
She spent the morning preparing, gathering supplies and reviewing the notes in her grandmother's journal. There were entries about herbs and plants that could offer protection, recipes for tinctures and potions that could ward off malevolent spirits or enhance one's senses. Elara had always been fascinated by her grandmother's knowledge, but she had never imagined she would need to use it for something like this.
By midday, she was ready. She packed a small bag with the essentials—a flask of water, a few herbs, a length of rope, a knife, and the journal itself—and set off for the garden. The villagers she passed along the way gave her curious looks, but no one stopped her. They had long since grown accustomed to Elara's strange ways, her curiosity about things that others preferred to leave alone.
The garden was just as she had left it, the gate slightly ajar, the ivy creeping up the iron bars like grasping fingers. Elara hesitated for only a moment before pushing the gate open and stepping inside.
The air was cooler here, as it had been the night before, and the light seemed to take on a muted quality, as though filtered through a veil of mist. The whispers were faint, almost imperceptible, but they were there, lurking at the edges of her consciousness.
Elara followed the path she had taken the previous night, her steps sure and steady. The trees towered above her, their branches creating a canopy that blocked out much of the sunlight, casting the garden in deep shadow. The flowers that lined the path were in full bloom, their colors vibrant against the green of the undergrowth, but there was something unsettling about them, something that made Elara's skin prickle with unease.
She reached the clearing sooner than she expected, the ancient tree rising up before her like a sentinel guarding some long-forgotten secret. The stone bench was just as she had left it, the symbols carved into its surface almost glowing in the dim light. Elara approached cautiously, her eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger, but there was nothing—only the tree, the bench, and the whispers that seemed to grow louder with each step she took.
She knelt beside the bench, her fingers tracing the symbols once more. They were unlike anything she had seen before, intricate and complex, almost alive with energy. She could feel the power thrumming beneath her fingertips, a pulse that resonated deep within her. The symbols seemed to shift and change as she looked at them, their meanings just out of reach, tantalizingly close but always slipping away when she tried to grasp them.
Elara opened her grandmother's journal, flipping to the page with the sketch of the tree. She compared the symbols on the bench with those in the drawing, her brow furrowing in concentration. There were similarities, patterns that repeated, but there was also something more, something she couldn't quite put into words.
And then, as she stared at the symbols, a realization struck her. The symbols were not just decorative—they were a map, a guide to something hidden within the garden. The thought sent a thrill of excitement through her, but also a ripple of fear. What was the garden hiding, and why had her grandmother warned her to beware the Frozen Hours?
Elara reached into her bag and pulled out the small knife she had brought with her. With careful precision, she began to trace the symbols with the blade, etching them into the surface of the bench. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, but Elara ignored them, focusing on the task at hand.
As she worked, the air around her seemed to grow colder, the shadows deepening until the clearing was plunged into near-darkness. But Elara didn't stop. She could feel the energy building, the power of the garden coalescing around her, and she knew she was close, so close to unlocking the secret that had been hidden for so long.
And then, with a final stroke of the blade, the symbols on the bench began to glow. The light was faint at first, a soft blue that pulsed in time with the beating of her heart, but it grew stronger, brighter, until the entire clearing