Beyond the garden wall, climbing roses spill over the hedge like pink water. Half-hidden behind them, an old cottage peeks out — slate roof glowing gold in the late afternoon sun.
Penelope pushes through the curtain of roses. Behind them, the cottage waits — ivy clambering up its walls, the front door slightly ajar.
Her palm meets the warm stone. Rough grit presses between her fingers. She steps toward the door.
The door creaks open. Inside, dust motes drift through tall rose-framed windows like tiny stars.
She crawls across the rug. Beside the windowsill, a leather sketchbook lies face-down among dried rosebuds.
She opens it. Drawings of wildflowers, winding paths, birds mid-flight — they shiver under her gaze.
Her finger traces a painted petal. Violet color bleeds outward, blooming across the page like ink in water. She gasps.
The room seems to lean closer. Outside, the roses tremble.
She grabs a pencil from the floor and draws fast — a bench beside the hearth. When she looks up, it's there. Solid. Real.
Her fingers still stained with graphite, she fills every blank page. The house begins to breathe again.
Stroke by stroke, the rooms fill with color. Floorboards gleam. Sunlight pools across every surface.
The cottage glows from within. Penelope smiles — her fingers still smudged with graphite — and begins to turn the page.
