Dinner was a quiet, comforting affair.The smell of stew still lingered in the kitchen, and the soft clink of cutlery had long faded into the hum of night. Outside, the cicadas had begun their chorus again, weaving a song that slipped through the open windows and into the corners of the house.
Noah stacked his empty plate by the sink while Rose rinsed hers under the tap. The lamplight above the table glowed golden, turning everything soft around the edges.
"Grandma," he said, drying his hands on a towel. "You said you'd tell me more about Grandpa Oak tonight."
She turned, her eyes bright despite the shadows that time had drawn beneath them. "Ah, Oak," she murmured. "You never met him, did you? You would've liked each other. He had that same curious streak as you—always wanting to know how things worked."
She sat down at the table again, her teacup steaming faintly, and gestured for Noah to sit across from her.
"He wasn't like other men his age," she began. "Most people, once they get a little gray around the temples, settle down and plant themselves like old trees. But not Oak. He was never still. If he wasn't out in the woods behind the house, he was halfway across the world chasing something he'd read about in an old journal or science paper."
Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, the words painting pictures across the dim kitchen. Noah imagined a younger version of his grandfather—sturdy and sun-browned, with that same spark of curiosity.
"He went everywhere," Rose continued. "The deserts of Africa, the Amazon rainforest, even those high mountains where the clouds sit right on the rocks. He used to send me postcards with little sketches—birds with feathers like rainbows, flowers the size of umbrellas, rivers full of silver fish. He said every corner of the world hid something magical if you looked closely enough."
She paused, sipping her tea. "It was in Africa where he found something he was quite proud of—a handful of rubies, buried in a dry riverbed. They weren't large, but they caught the sunlight like tiny fires. He showed them to me once when he came home. Red as blood, smooth as glass."
Noah leaned forward, chin resting on his hands. "Where are they now?"
"That's the funny part." She smiled, shaking her head at the memory. "A few weeks after he brought them back, he said he'd hidden them somewhere safe in the garden. Claimed the earth should hold them, not some locked drawer. When I asked where exactly, he just winked and said, 'Under good watch.' I thought he was being dramatic."
Her laughter filled the room, soft and fond, but it faded quickly. She stared down at her cup. "Sometimes I wonder if that was his way of saying goodbye. He always did have one foot out the door."
Noah was quiet for a moment. "Did he ever say what he was looking for? Like, the real reason he went on all those trips?"
"Oh, he said lots of things." She smiled again, this time wistful. "Knowledge. Adventure. To see what no one else had seen. But in the end, it was our own backyard that caught his attention."
She stood, motioning for Noah to follow. "Come with me. I'll show you something."
The living room smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. A lamp burned low on a side table, throwing soft light across the rows of books and photographs. Rose knelt beside an old cabinet and opened a drawer near the bottom. From it, she drew out a leather-bound journal, its cover cracked and corners rounded from years of handling.
"This was Oak's," she said, brushing off a thin film of dust. "He took it everywhere."
Noah watched as she set it gently on the coffee table and opened it. The pages were filled with spidery handwriting, sketches of plants and insects, and maps drawn in delicate ink. Some pages had smudges where water—or perhaps sweat—had bled the ink into faint blue halos.
"He wrote about everything he saw," Rose said. "Every trip, every idea. But near the end, he stopped writing about faraway places. Every page became about this garden."
Noah leaned closer, flipping through carefully. The drawings were mesmerizing—twisting roots, curling vines, detailed cross-sections of leaves. But what caught his eye were the little figures tucked between them: small, human-shaped forms with sharp ears and leaflike cloaks.
"Who are these?" he asked.
Rose laughed softly. "Oh, that was one of his favorite stories. He said he'd found a new world right under our feet. Tiny people, no taller than a finger, living among the roots and stems. He called them the Wood Gardenlings."
Noah's brow furrowed. "Like fairies?"
"Maybe. Though he said they weren't magic, just… hidden. He believed they cared for the plants, kept the soil healthy, helped the bees find their way."
She shook her head with an indulgent smile. "He had such an imagination. Even I thought he'd been out in the sun too long."
Noah flipped another page and found a sketch of the garden gnome he'd seen near the fence. This one was more detailed—Oak had drawn runes around its base, tiny circles and dashes connected like constellations. Below it, the handwriting read:"When the light is right, the way will…"
The sentence ended abruptly. A dark smudge bled across the rest of the line.
"What's this supposed to mean?" Noah asked, tracing the ink with his finger.
Rose leaned closer. "I've wondered the same. He drew that gnome over and over again in his last few pages. Said there was something special about it. But I think he just liked giving me puzzles to solve."
Her tone was light, but her smile wavered. She turned another page, and Noah noticed that the ink there looked strange—almost invisible in places, like faint shadows beneath the words. He tilted the book under the lamp, and for a heartbeat, something shimmered—a pattern of lines and symbols, too faint to make out, then gone.
"Grandma," he said, blinking. "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"There's… something under the writing. Hidden."
She peered closer, squinting through her glasses. "Oh, that? Just the ink fading, dear. That old thing's been through rain and mud more times than I can count."
But Noah wasn't sure. The shimmer had looked deliberate—like a secret hiding just below the surface.
Rose closed the journal and patted the cover. "Whatever it was, your grandfather took it with him. Maybe one day it'll make sense to someone else."
She stood, carrying her cup to the sink. "Come on, it's late. You should get some sleep."
Noah lingered a moment longer, staring at the journal on the table. It looked ordinary enough—just paper and ink—but something about it drew him in. He picked it up and carried it upstairs, holding it close as if afraid it might vanish.
In his room, the moon was bright through the window. He sat on the bed and flipped through the pages again, the paper rustling softly in the still air. There were more notes about the garden—measurements, diagrams, strange references to "watchers" and "the circle beneath the gnome." He found the same sketch again, the same runes.
He tilted the page toward the moonlight. For an instant, faint writing glowed along the edge of the drawing—thin, silvery lines like cobwebs. He blinked, and it was gone.
His heart beat faster. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Or maybe…
He turned the page and found a dried leaf pressed flat between two sheets. It crumbled slightly at the edges when he touched it, releasing a faint earthy scent that made him think of deep soil and rain.
He closed the book gently and set it beside his pillow.
The house was silent now, the kind of silence that carried the sound of breathing and heartbeat. Noah lay awake for a while, staring through the window at the garden below. The gnome's red hat glowed faintly in the moonlight. Everything looked still—peaceful, ordinary. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something out there was watching back.
His eyelids grew heavy. The line between waking and dreaming blurred.
In his dream, the garden stretched endlessly. The flowers towered above him like trees, and the air shimmered with golden dust. Between the roots, he saw movement—tiny figures darting through tunnels of green light. Their laughter sounded like wind through leaves.
At the edge of the dream, the garden gnome stood silently, its stone eyes glowing pale silver. A thread of moonlight spilled around its base, tracing the same ring of symbols from Oak's sketch.
And then a whisper came, soft as a breath in his ear.
Noah…
He turned toward the sound, but the world rippled like water, and everything dissolved into silver light.
When he woke, the moon had shifted higher, and the journal still rested beside him, half-open to a page that now looked perfectly blank.
Only the faint scent of earth remained.