Twenty years after the garden swallowed the last keyThey say that if you walk to the edge of the pink mountains, just before sunset, you can still see the white gate. Not the one the villagers rebuilt after the storm of '89—the older one, the one that had never been locked, the one that swung open for a child who knew the names of all the roses.I never saw it myself. I came too late. By the time I found the village of Keepers' Rest, the gate was a photograph in a museum, and the garden was a legend that parents told their children. But I sat on the stone wall—the real one, still standing, still warm from the sun—and I felt something I had never felt before.Stillness.Not the stillness of absence. The stillness of presence. The feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, even though I had no idea why.A dog appeared at my feet. Small, golden, young. He wagged his tail."Hello," I said. "Are you lost?"He wagged his tail again."Me neither," I said. "I'm exactly where I'm
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