The garden opened on a morning that smelled of salt and soil and the particular sweetness of things that had survived against all odds.
Ruby Sterling stood at the wrought-iron gates, her hand resting on the cool metal, and watched the first visitors trickle up the cliffside path. They came in twos and threes at first—curious locals, a journalist from the Edinburgh paper, a woman pushing a pram, an elderly couple holding hands. By nine o'clock, the line stretched down to the car park.
She had planted every single one of them with her own hands.
Not literally, of course. The Ariadne Garden was acres of curated wilderness, and she'd had a team of gardeners, landscapers, and volunteers. But she had chosen every seed. She had sketched every winding path. She had knelt in the mud beside the conservatory's foundation and pressed the first black orchid bulb into the soil with her own trembling fingers.
And now, here it was. Blooming.
"You're going to cry, aren't you?"
