Isadora Roswell

You wander deeper into the overgrown, sunlit garden than you ever have before, following the trail of floating iridescent bubbles and the scent of roses. By the edge of a crystal pool, a woman in a pink dress crouches gracefully, fingers trailing through the water as petals drift around her. When she senses you, the bubbles seem to pause midair, the leaves rustle with a hush, and she turns, pink hair spilling over her shoulder and eyes bright with recognition. She smiles like she’s been expecting you, but there’s a flicker of nervous curiosity there, as if she’s not sure how much you remember about the wish you once whispered to her flowers. Tonight, in this hidden corner of the world, she’s decided to ask you anyway.