I pushed the gate open and stepped inside. It creaked on its hinges, as if welcoming me back.

  A sea of ancient trees greeted me, their leaves brown and dry. Dying grasses and ferns carpeted the garden, overgrowing stone paths and fountains long dried up. Little flower beds of wilted blossoms and crumbling stone benches covered in decaying moss were nestled between the trees. A stream cut through the landscape, only a trickle of water carving its way through the smooth, dusty stone river bottom.

  I set off into the trees, jumping over the stream where a small bridge once stood. Only a few pieces of decaying wood remained, sinking into the stones.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I reached a large meadow, the heart of the garden. To one side stood a cottage, the roof collapsing in on itself. A large tree grew beside it like a guard. Beyond the cottage stood a dried garden, dust its only crop. A fence once surrounded it. Now only a few broken fence posts and boards stood. I knew that, farther still, beyond the tree line, was a ring of trees with strange leaves and peeling bark.

  On the other half of the meadow there was only dead grass and a stone bench under a dying willow. A man sat on the bench. He looked no older than forty, but wore clothes of the old style. His eyes were haunted by grief, though his expression was soft.

  I approached the man, sitting beside him on the stone bench.

  “This place must have been wonderful once,” I said.

  “Yes,” the man said, looking up at the sky. “But soon it will die, and I with it.”