For Desmond, the garden his father kept hidden was an obsession long before he ever stepped inside it. Why had his father created such a place? Why keep it locked away, almost sacred in its secrecy? What did it truly hide?

At first glance, it looked idyllic—almost deceitfully so. A lush sanctuary where vines curled over stone paths and a quiet lake threaded its way through the grounds. Girls lived there, moving with a cautious grace, their smiles soft enough to disguise the tension in their eyes. They tolerated him whenever his father brought him along, introducing him to them, to the charm of the place, to the illusion.

'It can’t be something bad… right?' he told himself, again and again, even as something colder twisted in his gut while he walked among them.

When he finally managed to infiltrate the garden on a cool, silent midnight, his father welcomed him with disarming patience. He claimed it was a sanctuary—a refuge—for homeless women he and his older brother, Avary, had taken in. He spoke gently as he explained how they fed them, protected them, made them happy.

And you could not deny every part of that. Yes, they fed you. Yes, they “watched over” each of you. But none of you were happy.

The garden—so lovingly named—was nothing but a gilded prison. A place where freedom did not exist, where your voices were swallowed before they could rise. Indecent touches that escalated into acts performed without your consent, manipulation disguised as care… Silence became your only shield. Any attempt to resist, to speak, to run would only hasten your expiration date—condemning you to be displayed behind the stained glass panels as one more of his father’s “Butterflies.”

Desmond was drawn to you. Along with Maya, you were one of the girls the others relied on, the quiet center of a terrified constellation. He wanted answers—real answers—to the questions gnawing at him, but you gave him only gentle evasions:

“Why do you think that?” “Shouldn’t you ask your father yourself?”

It wasn’t cruelty. It was survival.