Speaker 1: Carbon gate. I had walked past that stone wall a
Speaker 1: hundred times, maybe more. It ran along the south side
Speaker 1: of the lane, old and gray, covered in moss and ivy,
Speaker 1: ordinary as anything. I walked past it on my way
Speaker 1: to the shops, on my way home, on my way
Speaker 1: to nowhere in particular. I had never stopped to look
Speaker 1: at it closely. It was just a wall, the way
Speaker 1: walls are. But that afternoon something was different. The light
Speaker 1: was different. The late sun was coming through the trees
Speaker 1: at a low angle, warm and golden, and it fell
Speaker 1: across the stone wall in a way that made every
Speaker 1: crack and crevice visible, every texture real. And in the wall,
Speaker 1: where I had never noticed it before, there was a gate.
Speaker 1: It was small, no taller than I was made of
Speaker 1: iron that had got green with age. The hinges were
Speaker 1: thick and old, and the latch was shaped like a leaf.
Speaker 1: It was set into the wall between two stones that
Speaker 1: were slightly larger than the rest, as if the wall
Speaker 1: had been built around it. From the very beginning, ivy
Speaker 1: climbed over the top of it, but the gate itself
Speaker 1: was clear, as if something had kept the vines from crossing.
Speaker 1: I stood in front of it and felt something strange.
Speaker 1: Not fear, not curiosity exactly, but a kind of recognition,
Speaker 1: as if I had been standing here before, and exactly
Speaker 1: this spot, looking at exactly this gate, as if I
Speaker 1: had always meant to find it. I reached out and
Speaker 1: touched the latch. The iron was cool under my fingers,
Speaker 1: smooth where hands had touched it many times over many years.
Speaker 1: I lifted the latch, and the gate opened with a
Speaker 1: sound that was not a creek, but a sigh, soft
Speaker 1: and welcoming, like the gate had been holding its breath
Speaker 1: and was finally allowed to exhale. Beyond the gate was
Speaker 1: a garden. It was not a large garden. It was
Speaker 1: enclosed on all sides by the same stone wall, and
Speaker 1: it could not have been more than thirty feet across.
Speaker 1: But it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.
Speaker 1: Roses grew along the wall in great soft clouds of
Speaker 1: pink and white, and deep red. Lavender lined the path
Speaker 1: in low purple rows, and the air was thick, with
Speaker 1: the scent of it, sweet and clean and old. In
Speaker 1: the center of the garden was a small stone fountain,
Speaker 1: not running, but not dry either. Water sat in its basin,
Speaker 1: perfectly still, reflecting the sky. There were stepping stones set
Speaker 1: into the grass, worn smooth, and a narrow gravel path
Speaker 1: that curved between the flower beds like a ribbon. And everywhere,
Speaker 1: everywhere there was light. The late sun came through the
Speaker 1: trees above the wall and fell in soft golden patches
Speaker 1: on the grass, on the roses, on the water in
Speaker 1: the fountain. It was the kind of light that made
Speaker 1: everything look like a memory, soft and warm and just
Speaker 1: slightly out of reach. I stepped inside. The gate closed
Speaker 1: behind me softly, and the sounds of the lane fell away.
Speaker 1: There was no traffic, no voices, no distant hum of
Speaker 1: the world. There was only the garden and the light,
Speaker 1: and the smell of lavender, and a silence that was
Speaker 1: full of peace. I walked along the path. My feet
Speaker 1: made no sound on the gravel. The roses brushed my
Speaker 1: arms as I passed, soft and cool against my skin.
Speaker 1: I reached out and touched one, and it was exactly
Speaker 1: as I had imagined it would be. The petals like silk,
Speaker 1: the color so deep it seemed to glow. And then
Speaker 1: I knew. I knew it like I knew my own name.
Speaker 1: I had been here before, not in life, not in
Speaker 1: any memory. I could hold on to. But in dreams,
Speaker 1: I had dreamed this garden. I had dreamed the roses
Speaker 1: and the lavender, and the fountain. I had dreamed the
Speaker 1: way the light fell through the trees, the way the
Speaker 1: path curved, the way the air smelled. I had dreamed
Speaker 1: this gate, this exact gait, and I had dreamed opening
Speaker 1: it and stepping inside. I kept walking. The path led
Speaker 1: me past the fountain and around a small mound of earth,
Speaker 1: where violets grew in a purple carpet. Beyond the mound,
Speaker 1: in the far corner of the garden, there was a bench.
Speaker 1: It was made of wood, old and silvered with age,
Speaker 1: and it sat beneath an arch of wasysteria. The wisteria
Speaker 1: was in full bloom, its purple flowers hanging in long,
Speaker 1: soft curtains on either side of the bench. Swaying just
Speaker 1: slightly in a breeze, I could not feel. I sat down.
Speaker 1: The bench was solid beneath me, worn smooth by years
Speaker 1: of sitting. The wisteria hung over me like a canopy,
Speaker 1: and I was enclosed in a small world of purple
Speaker 1: and green and dappled light. I put my hands in
Speaker 1: my lap and looked out at the garden, and I
Speaker 1: felt something I had not felt in a very long time.
Speaker 1: I felt home. Not the home I lived in, not
Speaker 1: the house with the front door and the kitchen and
Speaker 1: the bed, something deeper than that, something older, the kind
Speaker 1: of home that lives in the chest, in the place
Speaker 1: where breath starts, in the place where dreams come from.
Speaker 1: I had carried this garden inside me for years without
Speaker 1: knowing it, and now here it was real and solid
Speaker 1: and alive, and I was sitting in it. I leaned back.
Speaker 1: The wistaria was soft against my shoulders, and the flowers
Speaker 1: touched my hair like gentle fingers. A bee flew past,
Speaker 1: slow and golden, humming to itself. The fountain caught a
Speaker 1: leaf and held it on the surface of the water,
Speaker 1: turning it slowly. Everything was moving, and everything was still,
Speaker 1: and time had stopped being a line and had become
Speaker 1: a circle, or a spiral, or a place. I remembered
Speaker 1: being small. I remembered being a child, standing in a
Speaker 1: garden much like this one, holding my mother's hand. She
Speaker 1: had been telling me something, but I could not hear
Speaker 1: the words, only the tone of her voice, soft and
Speaker 1: low and full of love. The roses had been tall,
Speaker 1: taller than I was, and the lavender had brushed my knees,
Speaker 1: and the light had been golden. Just like this. I
Speaker 1: had been happy, I had been safe, I had been home.
Speaker 1: And here I was again, the same garden, the same light,
Speaker 1: the same peace. It had been waiting for me all
Speaker 1: this time, behind a gate I had never noticed, in
Speaker 1: a wall I had walked past a hundred times. I
Speaker 1: closed my eyes. The scent of lavender filled me, and
Speaker 1: the sound of the bees hummed in my chest, and
Speaker 1: the warmth of the sun lay on my face like
Speaker 1: a hand. I did not need to think. I did
Speaker 1: not need to do anything at all. I was just here,
Speaker 1: in this place, in this moment, and that was enough.
Speaker 1: I opened my eyes one more time and looked at
Speaker 1: the garden. The roses were glowing in the late light.
Speaker 1: The fountain was still, the wisteria swayed just barely, just enough.
Speaker 1: Everything was exactly as it had always been, exactly as
Speaker 1: it had always meant to be. I was home. I
Speaker 1: had always been home, and the garden knew it, and
Speaker 1: the gate knew it, and the old stone wall knew it,
Speaker 1: and I knew it. I closed my eyes again, and
Speaker 1: the garden held me, and I rested there in the
Speaker 1: place I had been dreaming of my whole life.