A forest.
The trees were tall. Their trunks were dark—black in color, smooth in some places and cracked in others, like old stone that had seen too many winters.
The bark didn't reflect light. It swallowed it. Their leaves looked thin and sharp, almost like blades, growing in long, narrow shapes that didn't sway in the wind because…
There was no wind.
Nothing moved.
And yet, something about the shadows between the trees made you feel like something was moving—just not fast. Not loud. Slow enough that it wouldn't be seen unless you stared too long.
Like something was waiting.
A pavilion stood right at the edge of that forest, where the wild trees met the edge of the garden.
Wooden. Simple. Built on a short platform of stone that lifted it just enough off the ground to make it feel like a place you had to step up into, not just walk through.
There were no decorations. No hanging lights. No wall panels or banners or names etched into wood.
