Chapter 1: Where Love Rests

The garden stretched endlessly, a sea of white and blue roses swaying gently under the soft morning light. Dewdrops clung to the petals, shimmering like tiny crystals, while the cool breeze carried their delicate fragrance through the air. It was a world untouched, existing somewhere between reality and dream—a place only I knew, hidden away from the rest of the world.

As I guided you through the winding paths, you marveled at the roses, running your fingers over their soft petals. A laugh escaped your lips, light as the wind, before you started running, spinning through the blossoms like a melody carried by the breeze. The sight of you among the flowers was almost surreal—like you belonged there, like you had always been a part of this place.

Then, in an instant, it changed. A misstep, a sudden gasp, and you fell. The roses cushioned your fall, but their hidden thorns found your skin, painting streaks of crimson against their pale petals. My heart clenched as I rushed to you, lifting you gently from the sea of flowers. You winced, but your eyes still held that quiet wonder, as if the pain was just another part of the beauty.

Without hesitation, I carried you through the garden, past the winding arches of ivy and through the narrow stone path that led to my wooden home. It stood at the heart of this world—a small, secluded haven with its deep oak walls and a slanted roof, nestled beneath the branches of an ancient willow tree. The scent of pinewood and earth wrapped around us as I pushed open the door, stepping into the warmth of the place I called home.

I sat you down by the fireplace, where soft embers glowed in the early morning light. The silence between us was comforting, unspoken words hanging in the air like whispers of the wind outside. I tended to your wounds with careful hands, brushing away the petals still clinging to your skin. And then, without a word, I moved to the small wooden counter, where the scent of coffee and cinnamon soon filled the room.

We sat together by the window, cradling our cups, watching the garden sway beyond the glass. The morning was crisp, the cold air curling around the edges of the house, but inside, there was warmth—between the flickering fire, the rising steam of coffee, and something else, something deeper.

You turned to me then, your eyes reflecting the white and blue of the roses outside, and for a moment, time held its breath. In that quiet, I realized something—this wasn't just a dream, wasn't just a place. It was a feeling. One that had been waiting, all along, to be found.