Page 121 of Sweet Nightmare

Not because the snow has stopped.

It hasn’t.

But everything around me is so white and still that the world feels muted. I… like it. I hate that I do, but I like it.

I take a few more steps and then, as if by magic, the garden unfolds before me. The hedges have disappeared beneath thick layers of snow, their sharp shapes softened into rounded mounds of white. Tall trees line either side of the path, their branches heavy with frost and illuminated with twinkling lights. Every twig is coated in silver, sparkling whenever the wind stirs them.

Then there are the flowers. White roses lie frozen beneath ice, their pale petals preserved beneath the snow.

Faceless statues stand between the trees, their white stone bodies dusted with more white, making them look less like sculptures and more like ancient, tragic figures frozen in time.

Hell, even the flowerbeds have vanished beneath the storm.

And yet, the garden doesn’t look dead.

It looks asleep.

As if it’s waiting for something or someone to come along and wake it.

I slow my steps until I eventually stop, standing perfectly still as I take in the world around me. My hands remain tucked inside my coat pockets as I breathe in the cold air.

I’ve seen beautiful gardens before. Some of the most beautiful in the world, really.

The gardens of Versailles in France, where every hedge is trimmed with mathematical precision. The Kyoto Garden in Japan, which was designed around centuries-old traditions. Gardens belonging to families with names that carry enough history to fill entire libraries for eternity.

But this garden?

This one is different.

This feels…sad.

And just when I think the garden couldn’t possibly get any more beautiful, I spot the fountain at its center.

“My God…” I whisper to no one in particular.

Then I slowly make my way toward it.

Halfway there, I curse myself for not bringing my phone.

I almost always have it with me. Not because I’m constantly taking pictures, but because every once in a while, something catches my attention so completely that I want to remember it exactly as I see it.

It’s rare.

But it happens.

And this is definitely one of those times.

The fountain is even more breathtaking up close.

Its water has frozen completely, encasing every tier in thick, translucent sheets that spill over the stone like curtains made of glass. In some places, the ice is so clear I can see the ripples trapped beneath it, as if the water has frozen mid-motion. In others, layers of frost cloud the surface, pale whites and silvery blues suspended beneath the ice.

Thin icicles hang from the edges of every tier. Some are no longer than my index finger, while others stretch downward like crystal daggers.

Then sunlight breaks through the clouds and touches the frozen water and the entire fountain comes alive.

The light is so bright that I have to squint. Silver reflections dance across the surrounding trees and solemn statues, flickering whenever the wind moves the branches.

For a moment, it doesn’t look real. It looks enchanted.