There’s an English garden where there are sleepy flowers soaking in bright sunlight. Where the green lush of plants surround the earth. Near the garden there’s an old property made of stone foundation, and inside its old wooden door, once you unlock it with a long key, there’s she.
Rose they call her because of her rosy cheeks, but she feels like a mop because of her brittle hair. Her clothing is mixed with hues of brown and beige; there’s nothing extraordinary about her and the life she leads. Just there is the garden where beautiful and exotic flowers thrive in many different colors, attracting many different birds of exotic origins themselves. There comes a parrot, brought in from the Caribbean, who leaves his desolate birdcage to squawk sometimes. Not the most pleasing of songs he sings, but it keeps the garden alive during quiet, dull days. Often times there’s nothing to do when there’s no work in the mansion, so she sits on the grass and reads books sometimes. On days when she’s more ambitious, she pulls out her favorite fountain pen and writes. She writes nothing important, as she thinks about the parrot and the dullness of what one would believe to be a secret garden. Mostly, she writes because she likes the feel of the ink staining the crispy dry papers of her diary. Mostly, she writes to practice her cursive writing. Once in a while she’ll elongate the ends of the letter A, but she has the most fun with the tantalizing curves of the letter R. She likes to lay on her stomach on the grass and put her chin over her one hand as she writes with the other. Once in a while, she’ll lower her sleepy, heavy lashes until they’re closed and fall sleep; while the ink from the fountain pen forms a puddle of dot on her crispy dry page.
It’s not common for anyone to interfere amid this secret slumber, but the owner of the house has been doing it for days, albeit from faraway. Each time he finds her, she’s dozing instead of doing household chores. There’s rumors that she’s a hard worker but the only thing that appeared to look difficult was the way her neck twisted in her sleep. There’s been talks that she teaches interesting subjects and has much to say, but he’s never heard her talk. It’s probable that her diary reveals everything about her, and it was the duty of the owner of the household to determine if she was, in fact, a worthy employee in the household. So naturally, when she repositioned herself away from the diary, he sneaked into the garden and gently took it in his hands. With great anticipation, his eyes widened at the thought of finally figuring out this curious and mystical creature that lay before him… well, that is, to figure out whether this employee is worthy to work there, he meant, as he squinted his eyebrow. He flipped through the pages of the diary and he couldn’t squint his eyebrows furthermore with bewilderment, when he discovered that the lovely lady had spent what appeared to be half of her employment there either dozing off, or writing the letters A and R.
“Whaaat!” The parrot squawked and awoke the lady, and right there and then sprang out the diary from the gentleman’s hands and fell into the bushes.
“What?” She questioned in bafflement at the awkward sighting of events upon waking up, and
“What?” He shrugged nonchalantly with his hands behind his back.
What happened thereafter no one knows, but according to the sources, the lazy afternoons continued to remain lazy, and the secret garden, a secret.