Her name was Marianne. She was twenty-eight, practical, self-reliant, and newly independent. After a long, messy breakup and an even messier apartment lease, she’d bought a house—her own house. It was out in the country, tucked in a small town with barely a main street and a lot of opinions. The place had belonged to an old woman named Mrs. Elwood, who had died mysteriously last winter.

The locals called her delusional. Talked about “voices in the garden,” “strange lights at night,” and how she refused to let anyone walk her paths after dusk.

But Marianne didn’t believe in small-town myths. She believed in square footage, charm, and the fact that the garden still bloomed wildly in late July without anyone tending it.

The house was perfect. Big and dusty, but not in a bad way. Wood floors, stained-glass windows, a winding staircase, and an overgrown garden that smelled like sun-warmed lavender.

She set her boxes down in the front hall, wiped sweat off her brow, and walked through the house room by room. Each one was filled with old charm—sunbeams through gauzy curtains, wallpaper faded with time, strange little figurines on the mantels.

After an hour of wandering, she stepped outside into the garden.

The flowers were blooming in thick clumps—roses, daisies, bluebells. Vines snaked up trellises and across old stone walls. It looked wild, beautiful, untouched.

She followed a small cobbled path, brushing aside some overgrown stems, until her foot caught on something—she didn’t even have time to yelp properly. The ground fell out from under her.

She dropped.

She fell.

For a few heart-jolting seconds she was just falling—wind and light and then—

Thud. She landed hard on something… soft? Grass?

She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. The air smelled strange—sweet, almost fizzy. Around her, tall glowing mushrooms stood like trees. The grass was impossibly green, nearly glowing.

And the people.

If they were people.

Some were tall and narrow, with skin that shimmered in metallic blue. Others had arms that split into branches. One walked by with a floating, translucent head shaped like a cube.

Marianne froze.

“What the hell,” she muttered, heart hammering.

She pinched her arm. Nothing changed.

Then—hands, under her arms, lifting her to her feet gently but firmly.

She spun, startled.

A man stood behind her. Or… close enough.

He looked human—tall, lean, pale as paper. His hair was a mess of dark curls, falling over his eyes. He wore a tailored red suit, the fabric rich and velvety, like something out of a masquerade.

And he was handsome. Dangerously so. The kind of handsome that made your brain short-circuit for a second.

He smiled at her like he’d been expecting her.

“Welcome,” he said, voice smooth as honey.

Then, casually: “Sunblossom.”

He brushed her shoulders off with one hand, not bothered at all by the fact that she looked like she was about to have a stroke.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth parting, trying to make sense of… anything.

“What,” she breathed.

“You fell,” he said, smiling wider. “Lucky you.”