Arden’s Game of Open Gates — Every evening, Arden paced the paths of the old glass conservatory and counted the places where rose stems nearly touched, naming each one a gate. Read the full story →
Every evening, Arden paced the paths of the old glass conservatory and counted the places where rose stems nearly touched, naming each one a gate. He had invented a game: if a vine curled left, he would step closer; if a petal fell, he would turn back. Until one evening, with the air warm as tea and smelling of damp leaves, a white bud opened without sound and the nearest arch widened just enough for his horn.
Because of that, Arden stopped counting and stood inside the hush he had only named before. Because of that, the other gates began to answer—fern tips lifting, roses loosening, the iron ribs overhead catching a pale green light. “One step,” he whispered, and his hoof found the cool stone beyond the arch. At last he walked through the smallest opening, not bravely enough to gallop, but bravely enough to go, while the first gate closed behind him in a soft curl of rose vine.
