Jurgis traced a finger over the smooth, darkened surface of the windowpane, a faint, lingering chill emanating from it. The air in the dorm room felt oddly brittle, as if all warmth and life had been meticulously scrubbed away. “You really outdid yourself, Volos,” he murmured, turning to the trembling demon. “Though, the window looks a bit… stormy.” Duke Volos, his phantom form vibrating with residual agitation, wrung his spectral hands. “It is merely the lingering impression of the cosmic void, Master. Proof of the profound emptiness I invoked to cleanse your humble abode of… of *dust*. The utter despair of its cleanliness should deter any further encroachment by, ah, *particulate matter*.” Jurgis chuckled, a soft, melancholic sound. “Right. Well, it’s certainly clean. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised Archmage Zoritsa I’d meet her at the flowerbed. We have a lot of planting to do.” The plot, now officially sanctioned by the Arch-Rector himself, was a patch of soil nestled beside the school's ancient observatory. It was a secluded spot, overlooked by few, and Jurgis had spent the better part of a week preparing the earth, his hands calloused from the unfamiliar labor. Today, the Vaidiman sun, a pale, distant orb, cast long shadows as Zoritsa knelt, sifting soil through her gloved fingers. She wore practical, earth-toned robes, her hair tied back with a simple ribbon, a stark contrast to her usual academic regalia. “Good morning, Jurgis,” she said, her voice a low, melodious hum. “The soil here is surprisingly fertile, considering the institution's general disdain for anything uncultivated by arcane means.” He knelt beside her, a small trowel in hand. “I think it just needs a little love. And maybe some good compost.” He gestured to a large, wooden barrel he’d filled with vegetable scraps and withered leaves. “My grandmother always said soil thrives on what’s given back to it.” They worked in companionable silence for a time, planting the first row of hardy perennial herbs Jurgis had chosen. Zoritsa meticulously arranged each seedling, her movements precise and deliberate, while Jurgis dug, his thoughts drifting to the small, sun-drenched plot he’d once envisioned on Earth. “It’s… peaceful,” Zoritsa observed, breaking the quiet. “Doing something so simple. So tangible.” Jurgis paused, wiping dirt from his brow. “It is. I had land, once. Or, I was planning some rows. For Lija.” The name felt heavy on his tongue, a fragile echo from a forgotten life. Zoritsa met his gaze, her dark eyes filled with an uncharacteristic softness. “Lija. Your fiancée.” It wasn't a question. He nodded, turning a clod of earth over in his palm. “Yes. We were going to get married. Build a house with an orchard and beds, just outside the city. She loved the smell of rain on earth, the way flowers opened to the morning sun.” His voice grew hushed, a wistful quality to it. “She was… everything. Bright. Full of laughter.” He paused, his throat tightening. “Then, one day, she wasn’t.” The air grew still around them. Even the distant chirping of the ward-birds along the perimeter seemed to cease. Zoritsa simply watched him, her expression unreadable. “It was an accident,” Jurgis continued, the words a low murmur. “A car. Drunk driver. She was just… gone. One moment, we were planning our life, the next, it was just… silence. Empty space.” He shrugged, a jerky, almost involuntary movement. “I came here, I think, because I needed to fill that space. Needed to build something, even if she wouldn’t see it.” He picked up a small, potted plant he’d brought with him, its leaves a deep, velvety green, its buds tightly closed. “I grew this one especially. It’s a Selene bloom. It opens only at night, under the pale light of the moons, and its petals glint with a soft, ethereal glow. Like captured moonfire.” He offered it to her. “For you, Archmage. For helping me make this little corner of peace.” Zoritsa took the pot, her fingers brushing his. A faint haze, like motes of dust in a sunbeam, seemed to rise from the plant’s closed buds, invisible to Jurgis, but not to her. As she held it, a subtle, almost imperceptible warmth spread from her hand, her own deep, latent magic resonating with the flower’s unique properties. A single, pearlescent bud on the plant pulsed faintly, then burst open, prematurely unfurling a delicate, star-white bloom. A wisp of its luminous pollen, fine as cosmic dust, drifted into the still air between them. As the luminescence touched Jurgis, the courtyard, Zoritsa, the stones – everything around him dissolved into a swirling vortex of blinding radiance and shadow. He wasn't seeing the courtyard anymore. He was back. He was standing in Lija’s small study, the scent of old paper and lavender in the air. The morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the golden light. Lija’s favorite mug, chipped at the rim, sat on her desk beside a stack of books. And then, he saw it. On top of her usual correspondence, nestled amongst bills and postcards, was an envelope. It wasn’t paper. It was… woven from celestial thread. Its edges gleamed with impossible, shifting constellations, and tiny, nascent galaxies swirled within its depths. It pulsed with a quiet, insistent thrum that vibrated deep in his bones. He reached for it, his hand trembling, drawn by an irresistible force. The radiant envelope was addressed to him, in script that defied any known language yet was perfectly legible to his mind. “*A New Vessel. A New World. A Sacrifice for the Stars.*” His eyes snapped to Lija, who was humming softly as she moved about the room, oblivious to the cosmic missive on her desk. He saw her smile, heard her laughter, felt the warmth of her hand in his. He saw the mundane, the precious, the fragile reality of their life. And then, the vision splintered. He wasn’t seeing the accident. He was seeing the *before*. The parchment. The impossible, star-dusted missive, sitting on her desk, *before* the car crash. A cold, alien dread coiled in his gut. This wasn't an accident. This wasn’t fate. This was… arranged. The damp loam reformed around him, stark and sudden. Jurgis gasped, a choked sound, his hands clenching into fists in the dirt. The vision had been so vivid, so terrifyingly clear. He had mourned Lija’s death as a tragedy, a senseless loss. But that sealed parchment… it changed everything. It wasn’t random. His new life wasn’t a gift from the void; it was a consequence. A brutal exchange. He looked at Zoritsa, who still held the Selene bloom, her expression momentarily unreadable, her dark eyes narrowed with a flicker of something that might have been surprise, or perhaps, recognition. Her hand, subtly, almost imperceptibly, moved towards the pocket of her robes, her fingers brushing against the faint, cold outline of the communication crystal hidden within. For a fleeting instant, a faint, internal glow, cold as distant constellations, seemed to emanate from her. Jurgis’s eyes, no longer clouded by grief, sharpened, focusing on her with a sudden, unnerving intensity. The gentle, unassuming librarian was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling stillness. He leaned forward, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, stripped of all artifice. “What was in that letter?”

The Garden and the Ghost