When I was first imagining Agatha’s Garden, I kept seeing this old iron gate. Weathered. Crooked on its hinges. Half-swallowed by vines. But still standing.
And it needed a key.
At first, I thought it was just a nice image. A little mystery. A way to start the story. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized: the gate isn’t there for decoration.
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