A No's Garden

Blood trickled through my fingers. My face was covered in it too. The man had collapsed completely, his wide-open eyes still fixed on me in a dead stare. Blood bubbled from his parted mouth like water boiling over in a pot.

"You damned little bastard! Look what you've done!" His lips seemed to move, as if angrily demanding an answer.

I sank to my knees. My hand rose to cover my eyes, beyond my control.

What have I… done… I thought, my whole body trembling.

*

So many things happened the year I turned sixteen. The first was that I moved house. The second was that I fell into my first love—the worst kind: one-sided, hopeless, all-consuming.

I knew, of course, that he had countless admirers. The rumors about him never stopped circulating through the school… but back then, I genuinely believed he was the only one for me.

His name was Finne. An upperclassman. He had soft golden hair, delicate features, and a pair of mesmerizing dark green eyes. Like all the popular students, his smile was always wide and elegant, always accompanied by a bright, clear laugh. Sometimes, when he walked down the corridor from the other end, and I stole what I hoped was a casual glance, the first thing I'd see was his radiant face half-hidden in the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

He was beautiful. A flawless opal.

More than once, I longed for a chance to get close to him. My mind was full of fantasies—the feel of his lips, the warmth of his fingertips.

But I could never bring myself to seek him out the way other girls did. I could only watch from afar, foolishly hoping that one day he'd take pity on me, turn around, notice me, smile at me, nod at me—and if he actually spoke to me, that would be even better…

Yes, I was too timid. Looking back now, that's certainly true. But at the time, I genuinely believed I was utterly ordinary. My face, my clothes, my conversation—none of it stood out. Even just watching him, I was afraid of drawing attention to myself.

Speaking of watching: sometimes I'd sit in the corridor outside the pool just to see him from a distance. He loved swimming—breaststroke, butterfly, freestyle… he loved it all.

After school, passing by the indoor pool, I could always spot his figure through the glass: his raised arm catching the shifting, scale-like reflections on the water's surface; his bare back rising and falling through the azure waves; his face always wearing that contented smile.

Sometimes I'd bring my sketching things. I'd dip my brush in paint and roughly capture the outline of him cutting through the spray. The green shadows cast by the ivy just barely hid me from view; occasionally they'd make me misjudge a color, but that hardly mattered. I loved the lush foliage, and I loved adding colors to my canvas that didn't strictly belong there—they said it made a painting feel alive and free.

I used to have a sketchbook of astonishing thickness. Lambskin cover, gold-embossed lettering, a space on the inside cover to clip in a pen. It was a gift from my mother, just before she left. I took it with me almost everywhere. But now, most of it was charred black, reduced to ash. What remained intact was pitifully little; a gentle touch would send flakes crumbling down. Whenever I thought about it, a wave of helpless rage surged in my chest.

Morrick had burned it.

Morrick—a school bully notorious for his cruelty. I'd only glanced at him once, curious why he was loitering outside the classroom during lessons. He'd sought me out privately, soaked my sketchbook in alcohol right in front of me, lit it, and walked away laughing.

I'd beaten at the flames with my schoolbag. When I realized it was hopeless, I'd burst into tears—grief and fury all mixed together.

That was when Finne appeared. He'd heard my cries and came running to help. He tore off his jacket, and together we clumsily managed to put the fire out.

“…Well, that's not good.”

Seeing the ruined sketchbook, Finne wiped the sweat from his brow and let out a sardonic laugh. "Looks like I was too late. All that effort for nothing. Should've just added more fuel to the fire, let it shoot up to the sky—and maybe drag the principal over while we're at it, so that bastard could really get what's coming to him—" He looked at me, his tone softening.

"Don't be too upset. It's just a notebook… Hey, you okay?"

The tears on my face hadn't yet dried. Seeing the mess on the ground, my heart clenched painfully. I wanted to cry again—and I did. I sank down, sobbing breathlessly. Even through my misery, I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I shouldn't be losing control like this, especially in front of a stranger! But the more I thought that, the harder it was to stop.

The smile finally faded from Finne's face.

"Hey—don't cry! A worthless piece of trash who gets his kicks from tormenting others isn't worth your tears. Not a single one!"

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it awkwardly in his palm, as if hesitating whether to wipe my tears away himself.

"—Hey, want a soda? Let me buy you one, okay? What flavor do you like?"

The sudden change of topic made me look up. I saw his wide eyes, his slightly furrowed brow, his bright pupils. I choked back my sobs and forced out a half-smile.

"No, no, you don't have to buy me anything. I'm fine, thank you…" I clenched my jaw, but another low sob escaped anyway.

Finne ran off. He was back quickly, though, clutching two glass bottles beaded with condensation—one orange, one lemon.

"I prefer lemon myself, but I'm guessing you're more of an orange girl—nobody dislikes orange-flavored things."

He sat down right next to me on the ground. There was a crisp pop, and through my tear-blurred vision, I saw his golden lashes lowered gently as his hands deftly pried off the caps. He pushed the bubbling, ice-cold bottle toward me.

Yes. I think it was right there—that was when I fell in love with him.

*

Anno. That's my name. Simple, clean-cut.

I remember I once had a long, complicated given name. It started with a sound like "An" and ended with something like "na"—a mush of syllables that blurred together like sticky dough. But I've forgotten the rest of it by now. Its origins are beyond tracing.

Back then, I was what you might call a… illegitimate daughter, living in a wealthy household.

The Auer family mansion, where I was staying, was known for its jewelry business—though in this isolated little town called Mintwood, almost no one had heard of it.

The truth was, my father had abandoned his proud family enterprise a year before we moved. He'd dragged us all here, throwing himself headlong into this place. Only he knew the real reason.

We'd spent five whole days on the train. When we finally arrived, we were greeted with bad news: the driver who was supposed to meet us had gotten dead drunk the night before and couldn't make it.

"Those—those contract-breaking bastards!"

Father cursed loudly. He managed to dig up a beat-up old pickup truck from somewhere and made us squat in the back with the luggage, while he and Aunt Olesya sat in the cab. And so we rattled and groaned our way toward our new home, every bump shaking us to the bone.

The truck bed was damp and filthy, reeking of fish. My siblings complained endlessly about Father's decisions—why leave the familiar, bustling capital? Why did their shoes have to step in puddles of dirty water? Why did their fingers have to touch disgusting, sticky things?

I wanted to complain too. I wanted to curse, loud and hard. But I was afraid of what would happen if I let those words out. So I just huddled miserably in the dark corner, silent.

Finally, the truck slowed. Our new home emerged from beneath the lush trees. It was an old mansion, over a century old. The locals called it "Minzworth Ka"—and whenever they spoke of it, their faces took on a strangely solemn expression.

Minzworth Ka Mansion—what a mouthful—looked enormous, almost like a small castle. It backed onto a forest, nestled at the foot of the hills on the edge of town. If it was a clear day, and you happened to be standing in the attic, you could open that little round window, look as far as possible in the direction away from the sea, squint against the sunlight and the damp, salty breeze—and just make out the distant blue-grey mountain range, capped with white snow.

The mountains were largely hidden by the dense forest, barely peeking out from the dark green canopy. Sometimes I couldn't tell if those layered trees should be called a woods or a forest—too big for the first, too small for the second. But the cool shade they provided was enough to make me love them.

As for "Minzworth Ka" itself—the moment I stepped inside, I knew it had been empty for a long time. The floating dust carried a cold, desolate scent. A light swipe of my hand across the wall revealed deep, winding cracks hidden beneath the wallpaper.

It had only been thoroughly renovated in the two months before we arrived—electricity and plumbing installed, new furniture added—so its appearance wouldn't differ too much from other inhabited houses. But my brother Kent still said it looked like a crumbling church in a slum, and that my room was like a nun's punishment cell.

Yes, my room was one of the shabbiest in the whole mansion. Small. Originally meant to be a storage room or closet. Tucked away at the far left on the ground floor—you even had to go down a few steps after entering just to reach the bedside.

It was basically a basement. Aside from the wallpaper and sheets, everything else in there was ancient, coated with a greasy patina. The air was perpetually cold and damp, carrying a musty smell. One wall had a long, narrow window near the ceiling; thin rays of sunlight sometimes filtered through, landing weakly on the opposite wall, bringing with them a faint warmth you could barely feel.

Father said we had to save enough guest rooms for parties. So aside from the third floor and the largest master bedroom, the remaining rooms were for us to choose from. But when I went up to the second floor and opened door after door, I was always told the room was already taken—for various reasons. "Nursery." "Storage." "Playroom." "Study." "Second nursery."

I was mortified. I wanted to curse out loud. But I could only force a smile and wander helplessly between the rooms—until Father came upstairs to check on things and finally saw my desperate situation.

"What's this? You're leaving your sister with nowhere to stay?" He stood with his hands behind his back, his tone mildly reproachful. "Stop messing around. Clear out a room for Anno to move into."

"But—but, Daddy!"

Little Amber rushed forward and threw her arms around Father's waist, dragging out her words in a whine.

"But I really, really want a playroom! I really do!"

"Yeah, Dad. And Mom's about to have another baby. It's always good to have extra rooms ready," Kent chimed in.

"I just checked the ground floor with Grad. There are plenty of empty rooms down there. I found one that'd be perfect for Anno—it's close to the back garden, lots of plants, and almost no one ever goes there. Right, Grad?"

Grad didn't answer. He just turned his head slightly and pushed up the glasses on his nose. He was Kent's twin brother, strange and eccentric, only two minutes older.

"That's right! What Kent said!" Amber cut in. "Anyway, Anno doesn't like talking anyway. That place would be perfect for her!… Please, Daddy? Please~"

"Alright, alright… Sigh. But Amber, you can't get everything just by whining."

His tone softened. He gently hugged his daughter, then turned to look at me.

"Well, Anno. From now on, that room is yours. Have the servants move your things in yourself."

"…Alright?" he added, after a brief pause.