She picks the apples in orchard, in the garden of her mind. And they are red as mix of wine and blood in the crystal glass left for no one, under the light of an early twilight somewhere on the edge of the world. The black branches of trees sway toward her in slow wind, like the fingers of dead lovers, gentle and dry, quiet reminiscence of some other days, gone by. And the gray, dry grass bows while she walks.
Cobwebs of the past is a name of the garden and she thinks of it, walking over the silver lake with water bitter and salty, where every drop is a memory and pain, every desire a crooked reflection of her own features. She moves between the gaps and holes of silence, where echoes of the voices in cacophony once stood and here and there, finds the bits of broken laughter and cut screams, picking them up, putting them away.
Eternal, this is her world...the filigree bridges made of bones and black wax candles melted over sacred stones, forming the images understandable only to her, leading toward ruined citadel on top of the hill. White as snow, broken in pieces, surrounded with glimmering colors of the stained glass windows shuttered over fragile absinthium and fern growth, it still stands. Crimson roses turned wild, with needle-like nails and the deep green moss richly cover once carefully tend path that leads there.
The ravens keep flying over that land, ripping the sky with darkness of their wings; spilling everlasting caws of remorse and sorrow into the aether, somewhere beyond the reach of hearing...they are circling, circling, like lost souls in the hell, a parade of morbid interest for death on merry-go-round.
Night never comes here, nor does the day ever dawn. The twilight lingers, hundreds of years old and the same light dances in never finished colors, casting the same shadows, over and over again. The same pale spiders knit their webs of dreams between the crooked apple tree branches, the same gray grass bows to slow, always mobile wind.
And she, too, is the same. Pale ghost in her own garden, she is just the wraith in her own mind and a prisoner by her own command. A novice in the order of one, with ordeal in solitude shaped to resemble an existence, she walks through place on the edge of the world, humming away a long forgotten tune.