One cold February night, on the eve of the bone full moon, she emerged from the darkest corner of the garden, her eyes ablaze like forgotten stars as she became transfixed on the man that had entered her sanctum sanctorum.

His eyes still hazy from the mist of the old inn’s poison, he reached out to her, waiting for her slender silk hand to glide into his. She was clearly made from porcelain, so intricately fine that he could almost see through her, and as she pulled him towards her delicate chest, closer to her timid heart, he felt the garden walls contain his entire soul.

The man was never seen again by the mortal eye, and others knew that the garden had claimed him as its own.

The maiden was seen again from time to time, pulling out bone ash from her porcelain pockets and sprinkling the flowers as they bloomed in the dark.

She was known as a mirage for muddled men, and had walked amongst the ruins from a time forgotten, the garden keeping all that she was, for ever more, with every porcelain flower.

Fin.