Chapter 19: The Garden of Echoes

There's something about late autumn that always fills me with a strange kind of melancholy. The air feels heavier, as if it's carrying the weight of the past year's whispers, and the leaves fall like broken promises. It was on one such day, under a dull grey sky, that I found myself walking through the park. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just trying to clear my head.

The park had an old garden, one that people rarely visited anymore. It was hidden behind a grove of trees, its wrought-iron gate covered in vines, like something out of a forgotten fairy tale. I'd passed it many times but had never gone inside. Today, though, something about the stillness of the air pulled me toward it.

The gate creaked as I pushed it open, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning. I stepped inside, my footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path. The garden was overgrown, wild, as if nature had claimed it back. Roses had climbed over the stone benches, and the fountain in the center was dry, its once-proud statues now covered in moss.

But what struck me the most was the feeling. It was as if the garden held its breath, waiting for something—waiting for someone.

I wandered deeper, the path winding through overgrown hedges and half-dead trees. The wind whispered through the leaves, and for a moment, I could've sworn I heard voices. Not just the breeze, but actual voices, faint and indistinct. I stopped, straining to listen, but the wind died down, leaving only silence.

I told myself it was nothing. Maybe the echoes of people who had once walked here, or the way sound carried in the quiet. But as I moved further into the garden, the voices seemed to follow me, always just out of reach.

The path ended at a small clearing, where an old sundial stood, cracked and weathered. The shadows cast by the bare branches overhead seemed to shift unnaturally, bending and warping the sunlight in ways that made my skin crawl. I should've turned back. I knew that much. But something about the garden felt…familiar.

Like I'd been here before.

I stood by the sundial, looking around at the overgrown bushes and fallen leaves. That's when I saw it—a figure standing at the far edge of the clearing, half-hidden in the shadows of the trees. My heart jumped in my chest. I hadn't heard anyone approach, and yet there they were, still and silent.

They didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, watching.

I opened my mouth to call out, but no words came. My throat felt tight, like I couldn't breathe properly. The figure remained motionless, their form unclear in the dim light. I took a hesitant step forward, trying to get a better look, but as I did, the figure seemed to fade, as if melting into the shadows themselves.

My pulse quickened. I glanced around, suddenly feeling the weight of the garden pressing in on me. The whispers on the wind returned, louder this time, more insistent. They echoed through the trees, through the very ground beneath my feet. And this time, they sounded familiar.

I couldn't make out the words, but the tone—the rhythm—it was like a memory buried deep in my mind, trying to claw its way back to the surface.

I backed away from the clearing, my breath coming faster. The figure was gone, but the feeling remained. I wasn't alone here. Something—or someone—was in this garden with me. Something ancient, something that had been waiting.

As I turned to leave, the air grew colder, and the garden seemed to close in around me. The path back to the gate felt longer, as though the garden had stretched itself out, twisting and turning in ways it shouldn't. I started walking faster, my heart racing in my chest, but no matter how far I went, the gate never appeared.

I tried to stay calm, tried to tell myself it was just my imagination. But the whispers were louder now, surrounding me, coming from all directions. I could hear them clearly, but the words still didn't make sense. They were too fragmented, too distant, like voices from a dream I couldn't quite remember.

And then, out of nowhere, I heard my name.

Clear as day, spoken in a voice I hadn't heard in years.

I stopped dead in my tracks. The whisper was so close, as if someone had leaned in and breathed the word right into my ear. I spun around, but there was no one there. Just the trees, the vines, the empty garden.

Panic gripped me. My feet moved on their own, carrying me down the winding path as fast as they could. I didn't care where I was going anymore—I just needed to get out. The whispers were growing louder, more urgent, overlapping each other until they were a cacophony of sound.

I broke into a run, my legs burning as I sprinted through the garden, the branches and vines seeming to reach out, trying to slow me down. My lungs ached with every breath, but I kept going, desperate to find the gate.

Finally, after what felt like hours, I saw it—the iron gate, just ahead, barely visible through the undergrowth. I stumbled toward it, nearly tripping over the uneven ground, and threw myself against the cold metal.

The gate didn't budge.

I yanked on it, my fingers slipping against the rusted iron, but it wouldn't open. It was locked. I was trapped.

I pounded on the gate, shouting for help, even though I knew no one would hear me. The garden was empty, abandoned. The only sound was the wind, and the whispers.

The whispers, which were no longer coming from the wind.

I turned slowly, my heart hammering in my chest. Standing at the edge of the path, where the trees met the clearing, was the figure.

They were closer now, and I could see them more clearly. It was a man—a man I knew.

The whispers stopped.

He stepped forward, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes hollow. I felt the world tilt, the ground seeming to shift beneath me. I knew him. I hadn't seen him in years, but there was no mistaking it.

He was supposed to be dead.

"Why didn't you come back?" he asked, his voice low and ragged.

I couldn't answer. My throat was dry, my mind racing.

He took another step forward, his expression unreadable. "You left me here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why didn't you come back?"

I pressed myself against the gate, my breath shallow, panic clawing at my chest. "I…I didn't know," I stammered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I didn't know."

The man stared at me, his eyes dark and empty. "You knew," he said softly. "You always knew."