The Back Gardens

The gardens are lush, a small oasis of carefully maintained wilderness. You walk down the paver path, keeping a hand extended out from your side to tickle the ornamental grasses and brush against delicate petals. 

As you continue, the air grows heavy with a cloying fragrance. Its weight is unnatural. Your appreciation of the garden’s exquisite beauty melts into an ominous pit in your stomach. Trying to limit your exposure to the oppressive scent, you raise your sleeve to your nose and attempt to breathe through the filter of your clothing. 

A hedge runs along the back edge of the garden. Beyond it, you swear a shape — a figure — steps past. As you squint at it, you discern the unmistakable glint of sunlight off water through some thinned and broken branches lower down on the hedge. There must be a reflection pool back there.