The townspeople of Oakhaven called it a ghost story. To Elias, a local locksmith, it was a challenge. He had been hired by a distant heir to finally clear the estate, but when he stepped onto the grounds, the air didn't smell of decay—it smelled of a June morning in full bloom.
Elias looked at his heavy iron tools, then at the dying garden visible through the window. He realized then that the heir hadn't hired him to unlock a door, but to break a curse that required a living soul to tend to the thorns. As the gates behind him vanished into a wall of thick, flowering brush, Elias set down his wrench and picked up a pair of shears. Rosemont
Rosemont wasn't a house; it was a hungry, beautiful thing, and it finally had someone to keep it alive. The townspeople of Oakhaven called it a ghost story
When Elias clicked the latch, the house didn't creak; it sighed . The walls began to shift, the wallpaper blooming into actual vines that raced toward the ceiling. From the shadows of the grand staircase, a woman appeared. She wasn't a ghost; she was made of petals and briar, her eyes the color of moss. Elias looked at his heavy iron tools, then
