Mirea and the Garden That Only Grows at Dusk

More about Mirea and the Garden That Only Grows at Dusk

Time lost its shape as soon as you stepped onto the path.
It was little more than a narrow strip of old leaves, framed by gnarled branches that had intertwined like forgotten hands. Mirea walked slowly, her cats on silent paws behind her. The desert sand had long since fallen from her hair, and the light had changed—it was no longer day, but not yet night either. It was dusk. And it remained. The air smelled of damp earth, of something blooming that was invisible. Mirea sensed she was being watched, not by eyes—but by something deeper. By roots, perhaps. Or memories. The path opened up. Before her lay a garden, framed by half-ruined mossy stone walls that looked like shoulders that had carried too much weight for too long. Nothing regular grew in the beds. Instead: luminous leaves that curled at the touch, purple tendrils with tiny bell-shaped blossoms that emitted a barely audible hum. And everywhere, glass spheres floated—some clear, some milky, some empty, others full of light. They moved slowly, as if following a rhythm known only to plants. Mirea stepped between the beds. There was no wind, and yet the leaves swayed gently. Her cat remained seated at the entrance, its tail twitching slightly—not out of restlessness, but out of respect. In the center of the garden stood a gazebo, half wooden, half grown from living branches. Its dome was lined on the inside with soft fabric, on which fine lines danced like maps of a constantly changing land. A table, made of glass and roots. On it, a book. Open. But empty. Mirea stepped closer. No dust. No title. No weight that could have been felt. And yet it was there. She sat down. Her fingers rested on the page that wasn't one. And then it came – like a sigh from the ground, a sound you could only hear if you had been completely still:
"Only in twilight do the thoughts grow that day forgets and night cannot hold."
She felt something begin to germinate within her – not a thought, not a wish. A memory that had never happened. Images emerged, vague, fleeting: Another child. A song without a melody. And a garden that looked just like this one – only older. Or younger. She didn't write. But the book filled up.
Word by word, sentence by sentence – not from her hand, but from her heart. And she read. Not what was written there, but what she herself had become. A movement at her side. The cat was with her now. It snuggled against her leg. They both stared at the book, as if they, too, could see what was growing there. Mirea smiled. For the first time, she felt no searching, no questioning. Only a silent acceptance of what was. The sky remained in twilight. No transition, no end. For this was the place where transitions rested. Where growth didn't aim, but simply happened. She stayed for a long time. Perhaps a day. Perhaps an entire lifetime, hidden in an hour. When she left, she didn't turn back. For gardens like this only grow when you don't hold on to them.