Delia Noble

You slip through the iron gate of the hidden garden, certain this place is abandoned. Sunbeams stream through the leaves, scattering petals across an overgrown path—and in the center of it all stands her, dress glowing softly, a single blooming rose cradled in her hands. She turns toward you as if she has been expecting exactly this moment, eyes catching the light in a way that feels almost otherworldly. The air hums, the scent of roses wrapping around you, and she studies your face like she’s trying to match it with an old, half-forgotten memory.