The Last Box🌙

Maren Elwood had never liked the sound of packing tape. It was too final. Too loud. Like a door slamming shut on something that had already faded.She knelt on the hardwood floor of her once shared bedroom, surrounded by half-filled boxes and the ghosts of “almosts”. The morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows on the walls—walls that had once held concert posters, love notes, and a calendar she’d stopped updating six months ago.The breakup hadn’t been dramatic. No shouting. No betrayal. Just a slow erosion of hope, like water wearing down stone.She’d loved him. Or maybe she’d loved the idea of him—the way he made her feel safe, predictable, like she didn’t have to risk anything. But safety had turned into silence. And silence had turned into loneliness. The kind that curled around her ribs and whispered, This is all there is.Until last week, when she’d signed the lease at The Gardens.A townhouse complex with ivy-covered paths and a reputation for strange happenings. Her mother had called it “eccentric.” Her best friend had called it “a mistake.” But Maren had felt something when she walked past the fountain court—a pull, like music she couldn’t quite hear.Now, she was folding sweaters she hadn’t worn in a year. She paused at a faded blue one—his favorite. She held it to her chest, then placed it gently in the donation pile.The house was quiet. He was at work. And she was here, alone, choosing herself for the first time in years.She taped the last box shut.In the corner of the room, her guitar leaned against the wall. She hadn’t played since the breakup. Not really. Just a few tentative notes, like testing the temperature of grief. She picked it up now, ran her fingers along the strings. It hummed beneath her touch, like it remembered her.Outside, a car horn blared. The moving van.She took one last look around. The room felt smaller now. Like it had already let her go.She whispered a quiet goodbye to the girl who had waited too long. Then she walked out the door, guitar in handing her new life at The Gardens.

🌿 The Arrival

The Gardens didn’t look like much from the street.Just a row of townhouses with ivy climbing the brick, a wrought-iron gate that creaked when it opened, and a mailbox alcove shaped like a chapel. But as Maren stepped through the gate, guitar case slung over her shoulder, the air changed.It smelled like rosemary and rain. Like something old and waiting.Her unit was tucked in the northeast corner, past the fountain court where water trickled over moss-covered stone. She paused there, watching a child chase something invisible through the mist. A woman nearby—elderly, silver-haired—offered the child a cookie and whispered, “Tell Nellie I said hello.”Maren blinked. The child nodded solemnly and ran off.She kept walking.At the Greenhouse Café, a man with dark curls and a sun-warmed voice was tuning a guitar on the patio. He looked up as she passed, eyes catching hers like a chord struck clean.“You moving in?” he asked.She nodded. “Unit 9.”“Welcome to the madness,” he said, smiling. “I’m Theo.”She smiled back, but didn’t stop. Not yet.Past the café, two landscapers—twins, she guessed—were planting marigolds in mirrored spirals. One of them looked up and said, “You’ll want lavender by your windows. Keeps the dreams gentle.”Maren murmured a thank you, unsure if it was advice or prophecy.At her door, she found a note tucked into the frame. Welcome, Maren. The walls remember music. Play often. No signature.She thought this was an odd but needed invitation.Inside, the unit was sunlit and strange. The floors creaked in familiar rhythms. The air felt watched, but not unkind.She set down her guitar case, opened the windows, and let the October breeze in. It carried the scent of cinnamon and something older—like memory.She didn’t cry. She didn’t unpack. She sat on the floor, pulled out her guitar, and played the first song she’d written since the breakup.Outside, someone paused beneath her window. Theo. Listening.And somewhere in the walls, a ghost hummed along.

🌙 The First Night

The sun dipped low behind the greenhouse roof, casting golden light across the courtyard. Maren stood at her window, watching the shadows stretch like long fingers across the ivy. Her guitar rested beside her on the windowsill, still humming with the last notes she’d played.She hadn’t unpacked much. Just her toothbrush, a mug, and the quilt her grandmother made—the one with stitched constellations and a frayed edge shaped like a crescent moon.The unit felt alive. Not in a haunted way. More like it was listening.She lit a candle. Not for ambiance, but instinct. The flame flickered once, then steadied.Outside, someone knocked gently on her door.Maren opened it to find a woman with wild curls and dirt-smudged hands holding a bundle of lavender and rosemary.“I’m Iris,” she said. “Groundskeeper, herbalist, occasional dream interpreter. Thought you might need this.”Maren took the bundle. “Thank you.”“Sleep with it near your head,” Iris said. “The walls here remember things. It helps to offer them something gentle.”Before Maren could ask what that meant, Iris was already halfway down the path, humming a tune that sounded like soft falling rain.Later, as twilight settled in, Maren wandered toward the fountain court. The water glowed faintly, lit from beneath by something not quite electric. A man stood nearby, scribbling in a notebook with a flashlight tucked under his arm.“Ravi,” he said without looking up. “Night security. If you hear footsteps where there shouldn’t be any, let me know. Also, don’t feed the ghosts. They get clingy.”Maren blinked. “I wasn’t planning to.”He looked up then, eyes sharp but kind. “You will. Everyone does eventually.”She walked back slowly, passing the Greenhouse Café. Theo was locking up, guitar slung across his back. He saw her and paused.“Did you write that song?” he asked.She nodded.“It was good,” he said. “Sad, but good.”“I’m still figuring it out.”He smiled. “Aren’t we all.”She blushed and walked on.Back in her unit, Maren curled up on the couch with the quilt and the herb bundle. The candle had burned low, casting soft shadows on the ceiling. She closed her eyes.And dreamed.Of a boy in a mirror, tracing her name in fog. Of a woman singing lullabies through the vents. Of a red thread tied to her wrist, tugging gently toward the café.She woke at midnight to find a note on her windowsill. Play again. The walls are listening.She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She picked up her guitar and played.Eerily ok with commands out of nowhere. At the very least it offered distraction from the breakup.Outside, the wind stirred the ivy. Inside, the ghosts leaned closer.And somewhere in the courtyard, Theo couldn’t sleep and all he could think about was the new tenant in unit 9 .

🌞 Rosemary and Revelations

Maren woke to birdsong and the scent of lavender. The herb bundle Iris had given her lay beside her pillow, slightly wilted but still fragrant. Her guitar leaned against the wall, strings humming faintly in the morning light.She padded barefoot to the kitchen, where the cabinets creaked like they were stretching after a long sleep. A note had been slipped under her door.Breakfast at the Greenhouse Café. First cup’s on me. -Theo

She smiled, despite herself.

☕ The Greenhouse Café

The café was sun-drenched and full of murmurs. Theo stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, pouring coffee like it was a ritual.“You came,” he said.“You bribed me,” she replied.He grinned. “Fair.”He poured her coffee in the same ritualistic way as the others but handed it to Maren with a slow and hauntingly sexy gaze.She took her coffee and sat near the window, watching the courtyard come alive. Mateo, the chef, was arguing with a squirrel. Zadie Quinn was sketching something in her notebook, muttering about “temporal overlaps.” And the twins—Lark and Finch—were planting something that looked suspiciously like moonflowers.Theo slid into the seat across from her. “Sleep okay?”“I dreamed of mirrors and music,” she said. “And someone humming.”He nodded slowly. “That happens here.”Before she could ask what he meant, Iris appeared, carrying a tray of rosemary scones and a teapot shaped like a fox.“Mind if I join?” Iris asked.“Please,” Maren said.They ate in companionable silence until Iris poured tea and said, “You should know about Violet.”Theo stiffened.Maren looked between them. “Who’s Violet?”Iris stirred her tea. “Theo’s sister. She lived here. Died here. The fountain court.”Theo stood abruptly. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”Maren watched him go, then turned to Iris. “What happened?”“She drowned,” Iris said softly. “But not in water. In grief.”Maren’s breath caught.“She was a cellist,” Iris continued. “Brilliant. Sensitive. She and Theo used to play duets in the courtyard. But something broke in her—something no one saw until it was too late.”“Does she… still linger?”Iris nodded. “She’s gentle, mostly. Protective. But she doesn’t like silence. If you stop playing, she’ll remind you.”Maren thought of the note on her windowsill. Play again. The walls are listening.“She likes you,” Iris said. “That’s rare.”Maren looked toward the kitchen, where Theo was slicing strawberries with unnecessary precision. Longing to hug this handsome stranger whom she barely knows.“Does he talk about her?”“Only in music,” Iris said. “And only when he thinks no one’s listening.”

🌿 Later That Morning

Maren wandered to the mail alcove. A note fluttered from one of the cubbies.Unit 9: The Mirror Boy says you’re not done grieving. He’s right. She is not done grieving. Strange how all these feelings keep coming in for Theo. Just a random hot guy she just met that happens to be her neighbor now.She folded it carefully and tucked it into her pocket. Trying to handle her inside turmoil in the best way she can.As she walked back to her unit, she passed Eloise Hart, who was feeding birds and ghosts with equal tenderness.“Play something happy today,” Eloise said. “Violet’s been weeping in the vents.” Maren paused. “I don’t know if I can.”Eloise smiled. “Then play something true. That’s all she ever wanted, something pure and true.

🎶 The Song That Stirred the Walls

Maren sat cross-legged on the floor, guitar in her lap, candle flickering beside her. The unit was quiet, but not empty. She could feel it—the hush before a note, the breath before a confession.She strummed once. Then again. And then she sang .It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t pretty. But it was true.A song about loving someone who never saw her clearly. About shrinking to fit a life that didn’t want her whole. About leaving, not because she stopped loving—but because she finally started.The walls pulsed. The air shimmered. And somewhere in the vents, Violet Virelli wept.Not out of sorrow. Out of recognition.She drifted through the pipes, through the ivy, through the candle smoke, until she hovered just above Maren’s shoulder, invisible but radiant.“She’s perfect,” Violet whispered to no one. “She’s exactly what Theo needs.”

🌿 The Matchmaking Begins

The next morning, Maren opened her door to find a single red thread tied to her doorknob. No note. Just a gentle tug toward the courtyard.She followed it.Theo was there, tuning his guitar beneath the willow tree.“Did you leave this?” she asked, holding up the thread.He blinked. “No. But I’ve been thinking about you.”She sat beside him. “I wrote something last night.”“Play it?”She did. And halfway through, he joined in—soft harmony, like sunlight on water.When they finished, the wind rustled the leaves. And Violet danced.She twirled through the fountain mist, spun across the cobblestones, and left a trail of petals in her wake. No one saw her. But Eloise Hart smiled knowingly and whispered, “She’s matchmaking again.”

🎻 Duet in the Courtyard

Later that week, Iris invited Maren and Theo to play at the courtyard gathering. “The ghosts like music,” she said. “And so do the neighbors.”They played a duet—Theo on guitar, Maren on vocals. The song was about second chances, and gardens that bloom after frost.As they played, the fountain glowed faintly. The Mirror Boy appeared in a puddle, clapping silently. And Violet danced again—this time with joy so bright, the ivy bloomed early.After the song, Theo looked at Maren and said, “You make the ghosts happy.”She smiled. “You make me brave.”Violet, watching from the rooftop, whispered, “Now kiss, you fools.”But they didn’t. Not yet.She had time. She was a ghost, after all.

🌒 The Thread Tightens

The courtyard was lit with lanterns strung between the trees, swaying like fireflies caught in a slow dance. Residents gathered for the monthly Moonlight Ritual—an old tradition revived by Iris and Zadie, meant to honor the ghosts and the living alike.Maren stood near the fountain, guitar in hand, heart thudding. Theo approached, cello slung across his back.“You ready?” he asked.“No,” she said. “But I will be.”They played together—her voice raw and true, his cello weaving through the melody like a memory returning home. The crowd fell silent. Even the ghosts leaned in.Violet danced in the mist, radiant and wild. She spun past Eloise, who clapped softly. She twirled around Ravi, who muttered, “She’s getting bold.”And then—just as the final note rang out—Maren turned to Theo.“I think I’m starting to feel again,” she whispered.Theo looked at her, eyes wide. “Me too.”They leaned in—close enough to kiss.But before their lips met, the fountain behind them erupted. Water surged, glowing red. The lanterns flickered. The Mirror Boy appeared in every reflective surface, eyes wide with warning.Zadie gasped. “That’s not Violet.”Iris dropped her tea. “The Unnamed One is waking.”

Maren stepped back, heart pounding. Theo reached for her hand.And somewhere deep beneath The Gardens, a door creaked open……

End of Part 1