Your hand grasps the handle of the door. It is iron, rusty, ancient, and cold to the touch, but when you press down it offers no resistance and the door swings open with a creaking whine.
You are momentarily blinded by sunlight, but you blink and step outwards onto a stone path in what appears to be an overgrown garden. There are statues and fountains covered in vines and great trees that twist upwards before branching out into a canopy of spring green leaves. In the distances you can hear birds song, but the immediate area is quiet and deserted as if no one has been here for a very long time.
There is a slight sadness to this garden, as if it is forgotten, but at the same time it seems to welcome you with hopeful anticipation, as if the very plants are glad that someone has once again arrived to appreciate their beauty. The path curves forward, flanked by waist high hedges spangled with spiderwebs and empty birds' nests. At the end of the path is a stone wall, uneven, moss covered, and tall, but with a gateway where the door has fallen to one side. Beyond there appears to be a forest, thick and dark.
You glance back, and see that you are standing before the doorway of a tiny, stone cottage with a thatched roof and shuttered windows. The room you left is still behind you and you are comforted to know you can return at any time but now you press on. The garden smells faintly of wildflowers for there are many, peeking out from the long grass or snaking up the sides of the wall before you.
You reach the end of the path and a new sound catches your ears: running water, not the pleasant tinkling of a fountain or a babbling brook but the rush of a rapid. You sense that it is just on the other side of the trees.
The garden still offers much potential for exploration, but it is also tempting to see what lies at the side of the river.
Would you like to linger in the garden?
Or would you prefer to press on to the river?
You are momentarily blinded by sunlight, but you blink and step outwards onto a stone path in what appears to be an overgrown garden. There are statues and fountains covered in vines and great trees that twist upwards before branching out into a canopy of spring green leaves. In the distances you can hear birds song, but the immediate area is quiet and deserted as if no one has been here for a very long time.
There is a slight sadness to this garden, as if it is forgotten, but at the same time it seems to welcome you with hopeful anticipation, as if the very plants are glad that someone has once again arrived to appreciate their beauty. The path curves forward, flanked by waist high hedges spangled with spiderwebs and empty birds' nests. At the end of the path is a stone wall, uneven, moss covered, and tall, but with a gateway where the door has fallen to one side. Beyond there appears to be a forest, thick and dark.
You glance back, and see that you are standing before the doorway of a tiny, stone cottage with a thatched roof and shuttered windows. The room you left is still behind you and you are comforted to know you can return at any time but now you press on. The garden smells faintly of wildflowers for there are many, peeking out from the long grass or snaking up the sides of the wall before you.
You reach the end of the path and a new sound catches your ears: running water, not the pleasant tinkling of a fountain or a babbling brook but the rush of a rapid. You sense that it is just on the other side of the trees.
The garden still offers much potential for exploration, but it is also tempting to see what lies at the side of the river.
Would you like to linger in the garden?
Or would you prefer to press on to the river?
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