The Midnight Garden

The garden only existed at midnight.

Lily discovered this on her first night in Grandmother's house, when sleep eluded her and curiosity led her to the window. The backyard, barren and brown in daylight, had transformed into something impossible. Flowers glowed with their own light—blue roses that pulsed like heartbeats, silver daisies that chimed like bells, golden chrysanthemums that hummed ancient melodies.

She pressed her face against the glass, breath fogging the window. This couldn't be real. Gardens didn't appear at midnight. Flowers didn't glow. But there it was, luminous and impossible, stretching far beyond what should have been the fence line.

The door to her room opened without her touching it. An invitation.

Her bare feet found the stairs, then the back door, then the cool grass that shouldn't exist. Each step deeper into the garden felt like walking between worlds. The flowers swayed without wind, reaching for her with petals soft as whispers.

At the center, she found the sundial—which shouldn't work at midnight but did, its shadow pointing to a thirteenth hour that didn't exist. And beneath it, words carved in a language she couldn't read but somehow understood:

Those who tend the Midnight Garden tend the dreams of the world.

Lily looked down to find pruning shears in her hands, though she hadn't picked them up. The blue roses bent toward her, waiting. She understood now why Grandmother had left her the house. Why the lawyer had seemed so nervous handling the deed. Why the neighbors never met her eyes.

Some inheritances came with responsibilities that transcended the waking world.

She lifted the shears. The garden sighed with relief. There was work to be done before dawn.