You weren't supposed to find the garden.

The door was hidden behind a curtain of ivy, far from the main path of the medicinal halls. But something drew you there — a whisper on the breeze, maybe, or the faintest floral note carried through the air. You pushed the leaves aside and stepped into a place suspended in time.

The moonlight filtered through flowering vines and cast silver patterns across the mossy stone. In the center stood Hyacine, sleeves flowing, hair tied back loosely. She didn't flinch at your presence.

"I wondered how long it would take you to find this place," she murmured.

You blinked. "You knew I was looking?"

She turned slowly, her expression unreadable. “People who are hurting tend to seek silence before they seek words. This garden is where I go when silence is all I have to offer.”