The Magic Gardens – Chapter 1

The night had carried away the shadows, but not the chill they left behind.

When Jack woke up, dawn was breaking, and the room revealed its old dresser with three drawers, its white paint worn by time, revealing hints of pale blue beneath. The bed Jack had slept in had once belonged to his grandfather. The headboard and footboard were made of metal, shaped like half-moons filled with thin bars that, when assembled, looked like an open fan.

The mattress, too, was from another age, still keeping the comfort of the past, and Jack could almost see the exact spot where his grandfather used to lie.

Jack had been pleasantly surprised when he lay down on that bed. Sleep had come quickly, fatigue from the long journey that brought him back to this old house—the same house where he had spent wonderful moments with his grandfather.

He let out a sigh as memories of the joy he had felt as a child resurfaced, the day his grandfather had shared a secret with him.

A secret only a child could believe, a secret that had slowly faded into the disbelief of adulthood.

Jack’s gaze drifted to the nightstand, where his grandfather’s old radio sat quietly. He remembered so many times seeing the old man’s attention fixed on that radio, as if it were his closest friend and confidant.

A strange unease filled Jack. He couldn’t quite explain why, but something felt off. It was as if someone—or something—had whispered his name, or perhaps it was his grandfather’s name, he couldn’t tell. Alone in the room, he convinced himself it must have been the wind whistling through the old wooden windows.

He left the bed, his mind still wrapped in the fog of sleep, and almost without thinking, he picked up the radio from the nightstand before slowly descending the narrow staircase toward the front door.

With each step, the old wood groaned under his weight, creaking like a distant lament. At the doorway, Jack gently turned the handle, letting the door open.

He stopped abruptly, struck by the softness of the morning air. Before him stretched the garden, glistening with morning dew, bathed in a pale, almost ethereal light. Every fallen leaf on the ground seemed intentionally placed, suggesting a path to follow, a secret to uncover.

Jack walked slowly, unsure of what he was looking for, yet deeply certain that he needed to be there. Was it a buried memory, or something more subtle, more delicate? He couldn’t say, but one thing was certain: he felt the need to go further.

As he approached the old, abandoned stone basin, it revealed itself like a forgotten offering. The stone structure was partially hidden by overgrown plants, its shape only half-visible beneath the greenery.

Jack didn’t know why, but he was still holding his grandfather’s radio in his hands when it began to crackle softly.

At first, it was barely louder than the buzz of a mosquito near his ear. But the closer he got to the basin, the louder it crackled.

When he reached the basin, the crackle shifted into a clearer, more insistent sound. Jack froze, breath caught, as he saw and heard what was happening.

The basin, with its rough texture and irregular shape, seemed perfectly in place, as if it had been shaped by nature itself. Jack hesitated, then placed the radio at the foot of the basin. It fell silent, the crackle replaced by a hush that reclaimed the space, bringing calm and serenity with it. He reached out and touched the grainy surface of the stones. To his surprise, they were warm, almost comforting, despite the morning chill. A soft, familiar sensation passed through him. He felt unsettled, yet strangely excited by what was happening. Why here, exactly here?

Suddenly, a clear, quick, almost playful song broke the silence. Startled, Jack looked up. Perched on a branch nearby, a blue tit watched him intently, its feathers, damp from the morning dew, now beginning to dry.

Jack recognized the bird immediately. It was small, with fine legs and a delicate beak, cobalt blue on its crown, wings, and tail, and a bright yellow chest and belly.

A smile touched Jack’s lips, moved by a warm sense of déjà vu. The bird resumed its song, gentle and persistent, as if trying to share a secret from the depths of time. Inside him, something stirred, as if a door had cracked open, revealing an emotion long buried in the folds of his memory. “You hear it too, don’t you?” he murmured to himself, almost without realizing it.

The radio, left by the basin, vibrated softly, making Jack jump. He bent down, picked it up, and brought it to his ear, hoping to hear something, but the sound was too faint to understand. Still, he felt a strong certainty that something in the garden was about to awaken.

Jack straightened slowly. In front of him stood the old Ginkgo tree that his grandfather had loved so much, standing still, as if watching over him, letting Jack know that it was now keeping him in its care.

Perhaps, Jack thought, the garden had never forgotten him. Perhaps it had simply been waiting for him to be ready to hear it.