Rosemont

Elias looked at his heavy iron tools, then at the dying garden visible through the window. He realized then that the heir hadn't hired him to unlock a door, but to break a curse that required a living soul to tend to the thorns. As the gates behind him vanished into a wall of thick, flowering brush, Elias set down his wrench and picked up a pair of shears.

"The gardener has finally arrived," she whispered, her voice like the rustle of leaves. Rosemont

Rosemont wasn't a house; it was a hungry, beautiful thing, and it finally had someone to keep it alive. Elias looked at his heavy iron tools, then

Inside, the mansion was a frozen moment. A dinner table was set for two, the wine in the glasses still deep red and fluid, as if time had simply forgotten to pass in this one room. In the center of the table sat a silver music box. "The gardener has finally arrived," she whispered, her

When Elias clicked the latch, the house didn't creak; it sighed . The walls began to shift, the wallpaper blooming into actual vines that raced toward the ceiling. From the shadows of the grand staircase, a woman appeared. She wasn't a ghost; she was made of petals and briar, her eyes the color of moss.

The townspeople of Oakhaven called it a ghost story. To Elias, a local locksmith, it was a challenge. He had been hired by a distant heir to finally clear the estate, but when he stepped onto the grounds, the air didn't smell of decay—it smelled of a June morning in full bloom.

The rusted iron gates of hadn’t been opened in forty years, yet every morning, a fresh bouquet of tea roses appeared on the threshold.