Circe stood in the center of her mother's once-beloved garden, a strange unease prickling at her skin. Something wasn't quite right. The place did not look as she remembered.
The last time she had walked these paths, the garden had been dull and withering, the flowers drooping under her father's indifference after her mother's death.
Yet now, as her gaze swept across the familiar grounds, it seemed inexplicably transformed. The air was richer, almost shimmering with life. Blossoms bloomed in vibrant hues, their colors so vivid they almost hurt her eyes.
The branches bent under the weight of blossoms she didn't recall ever seeing before, and the sweet fragrance of azaleas lingered thickly in the air.
It was too beautiful, too alive.
Her eyes caught on a patch of grass near the azalea bushes, where something stark and jarring broke the illusion of beauty. A rabbit lay motionless, its snow-white fur stained crimson, blood still seeping from an open wound on its neck.
