Twelve years later, the garden had grown wild in the places no one tended anymore.The fountain still sang, though its stone had darkened with age and moss. The oak tree had thickened, its branches spreading wider, casting deeper shadows across the east wing. The word **Chosen** was still carved into the fountain wall, though the mortar had cracked around the letters, making them look older than they were.Isabella Blackwood was twelve now.She was tall for her age, with her father’s dark hair and her mother’s stubborn chin. She had inherited neither the fear nor the silence that had once defined the house. Instead, she carried a quiet, relentless curiosity—the kind that made teachers nervous and made her parents exchange knowing glances across the dinner table.On a warm Saturday in late spring, she was digging near the fountain with a small trowel she had stolen from the gardener’s shed. She was supposed to be doing homework. She was not.The trowel struck something hard.Isabella p
Last Updated : 2026-07-24 Read more