It had been years since I visited Uncle's country estate. He'd sent me to boarding school in the city and told my headteacher I would spend my holidays there as well. I didn't mind that much. Uncle wasn't one to make big of holidays or birthdays. Anything of the sort, really.

The road to Cherrywood Grove was dusted with age, untouched by modern wheels or hurried footsteps, as if the world had simply forgotten it existed. The trees leaned in close, their branches whispering secrets to the wind, and the scent of earth and fading blossoms lingered in the air like an old memory. It was part of the charm.

I prayed for the day my uncle named me beneficiary of the estate. I had plans for this place. Nothing drastic—I just wanted the place to look liveable. Maybe a fresh coat of paint, a few repairs to the roof, and someone to trim back the ivy that was slowly trying to reclaim the walls. Not too much to ask, really. But knowing Uncle, he'd probably rather let the place crumble into an enchanted ruin before he'd entertain the idea of change.

Still, as the carriage rattled over the uneven path, I couldn't help but feel a strange pull—like the house itself was aware of my return, holding its breath, waiting.

The carriage came to a halt in front of the main house. While I waited for the footman to come around, I took in the sight before me—the ivy had all but swallowed the stone walls, its vines creeping over the edges of the windows like grasping fingers. The iron gates covering the glass were rusted and bent in places, as if the house itself had long stopped resisting time's slow decay.

Before I could step down, the heavy front door creaked open, and a familiar figure emerged. A stout, gray-haired man in a crisp but slightly outdated uniform strode toward me, his expression pinched with the usual mixture of professionalism and quiet disapproval. His name evaded me, but I was sure to remember as the afternoon went on.

"Master Rowan," he said with a curt bow. "Your uncle is expecting you in the parlor."

I nodded as I stepped out of the carriage and followed him toward the door.

The interior of the house had not changed since my last visit. Then again, my last visit had been the day I left for school. Outdated and worn with age, the foyer had an air of neglect, its faded rugs and time-darkened wood reminding me of the old tool shed I'd been tasked with cleaning during chore time—functional, but long past its prime.

My nose was hit by the familiar scent of burning tobacco as I stood in the doorway to the parlor. The air was thick with it, clinging to the heavy drapes and the timeworn upholstery of the armchairs by the fireplace. Dim light filtered through the lace-covered windows, casting intricate patterns on the faded rug. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, their once-polished surfaces now dulled with dust, and the grand piano in the corner sat untouched, its keys hidden beneath a film of neglect. A brass ashtray, overflowing with cigar stubs, rested on a side table beside an open decanter of brandy—both telltale signs that my uncle had spent the afternoon brooding in his usual spot.

"Uncle," I said, standing in front of him with my hands behind my back. Straight as a soldier.

"Rowan," he replied as he tapped his cigar and dabbed it in the ashtray on his side table. He folded his paper and placed it on his lap before touching all of his fingertips together at his chin.

"I see you keep yourself in order," Uncle said after a moment of examination. "Well dressed, clean."

I sighed and asked, "I suppose that is your version of a compliment, Uncle? Are you at least pleased to see me?"

"What sort of question is that?"

He waved me off and rose from his chair. To my surprise, he produced a cane, supporting his weight on his left side. Uncle was always a tall man, but right now he seemed smaller somehow—his once-imposing frame hunched with age, his shoulders rounded as if the years had pressed down on him. Deep lines etched his face, and the silver in his hair had overtaken the dark, leaving only traces of the man I remembered. Even his sharp, calculating gaze had dulled at the edges, though I doubted time had softened him.

"You submitted those forms, I hope?" Uncle went on, clearing his throat as he stuffed a hand into the inner pocket of his coat.

"The forms for finishing school or the army?" I countered, watching as he brought out his handkerchief and blew his nose—loudly. "You had both sent to me. Was I to choose one over the other? Or submit both and follow the first acceptance letter?"

"You are supposed to attend finishing school and join the army immediately after," he replied, shoving the hankie into his pants pocket instead of his inner jacket pocket. "Every man in our family, for five generations, has done this and so must you."

"You will exhaust yourself with this yelling," I said, stepping forward and guiding the old man back to his chair. "Let me call for some tea. You can express your thoughts when you've calmed down."

Uncle continued grumbling about our family reputation and how I will be reared properly. But I turned on my heel and went toward the door.

"Jameson," I said as I passed the butler, quietly pleased that I had remembered his name. "Bring some tea and call me when it is ready. I shall be in my room."

"Of course, young sir," was his professional reply.

* * *

My old bedroom had been completely renovated. It no longer held any trace of the boy who once called it home. I could see that my uncle had taken great care in removing my toys and child's mattress. In its place stood a large bed, dressed in plain sheets and simple pillows. I remembered the wallpaper as blue with a leafy pattern, now replaced by a tan, striped design.

The window faced east, ensuring the morning sun would set the alarm clock's job in motion.

Memories of a carefree boy with a wild imagination flooded my mind. I used to be happy. But at nineteen, I was following the path my uncle had laid for me. I didn't want to join the army, though I wasn't at all keen on finishing school either. The latter seemed less soul-sucking than the former.

With a heavy sigh, I made my way to the side of the bed—I removed my jacket and laid it carefully on the chair beside the nightstand. Running a hand through my hair, I sat on the edge of the mattress, testing its unfamiliar firmness. The room felt foreign, like a guest chamber rather than a place I once called my own.

I glanced toward the window, where moonlight spilled through the glass, casting pale streaks across the floor. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant ticking of the alarm clock on the bedside table.

The hallway outside the door echoed the distant chiming of a bell. Probably Jameson alerting myself and my Uncle that the tea was ready to be served. But I lingered a while. I hardly spent ten minutes with the man, but I was drained of all social energy and I had forgotten how exhausting it was to talk with him.

I knew Uncle meant well. He wanted me to live an abundant, prosperous life. A life my parents would have wanted for me. Whether this life was what they would have wanted, no one would ever know. With a weight on my shoulders, stood back on my feet and retreived my jacket before making my way out of the room.

* * *

As the evening drew near, I managed to escape Uncle's inquisition and lecture, retreating to the garden—the only place that had ever offered me solace after my parents died. The crisp air carried the scent of damp earth and fading roses, a lingering reminder of what this place once was. Dry leaves crunched beneath my shoes as I walked the old pebbled path, their brittle whispers blending with the distant chirp of crickets. Vines and weeds stretched hungrily over the stone benches and trellises, reclaiming what had been left untended. Somewhere in the overgrowth, a breeze stirred the branches, and for a fleeting moment, it almost felt as if the garden was breathing with me.

I sighed and sat on the old stone bench. My gaze went to the top of the stone wall that surrounded the garden and met the house on both the north and south sides. This used to be a wonderful hiding place—away from Uncle and all his expectations.

Without much thought, I began to fiddle with the signet ring on my left finger. I'd worn it since my uncle gave it to me on my eleventh birthday. He had been certain I would outgrow it, but to this day, it still fit snugly—like it had always belonged there.

My thumb traced the familiar grooves of the engraving, the cool metal warmed slightly from my skin. I'd never paid much attention to the stone set into its center—a deep, dark blue, nearly black in the fading light. But as I turned it, something flickered beneath the surface. A glint. A pulse.

I frowned and tilted my hand, expecting the effect to vanish, but instead the glow intensified. A thin crack snaked across the stone, then another, branching like lightning through glass.

Before I could react, the ring grew hot. A sharp, blinding light burst from the fracture, forcing me to shield my eyes. The air around me stirred, a rush of warmth against my face, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and something strangely familiar.

Then, as the light dimmed and my vision cleared, I realized I was no longer alone.

Hovering before me, wings shimmering like gossamer in the twilight, was a figure no taller than my hand. A girl—no, a fairy.

And I knew her name before she even spoke it.

Aria.