Chapter 12
The Gardener's Tale
An elderly gardener at an ancestral home shares anecdotes passed down through generations. These personal stories add a human touch to the historical facts Elara has gathered.
The air in the garden was thick with the scent of roses, a perfume so potent it felt like a whispered secret on the breeze. Elara traced the velvety petal of a deep crimson bloom, its colour a shade that reminded her of old velvet curtains in forgotten theatres. Sunlight dappled through the ancient branches of an oak, casting shifting patterns on the moss-covered stone path. It was here, amidst this symphony of green and bloom, that she found him. An old man, his hands gnarled like the roots of the very trees he tended, was meticulously pruning a climbing ivy. His face, a roadmap of a life lived outdoors, creased into a gentle smile as he noticed her.
"Lost, little bird?" he asked, his voice rustling like dry leaves.
Elara shook her head, a soft "no" escaping her lips. "Just… admiring. It's beautiful here."
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