There was a house on the hill. A house like no other. It had walls and a roof, windows and a door—ordinary things, yet nothing about it was ordinary. It was something between a Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece and a Gaudí fever dream, all sweeping curves and organic stone, terraces spilling over with vines, mosaic inlays catching the light like trapped fragments of a forgotten star. Pergolas twisted with ivy shaded garden paths, leading to secret alcoves where the air hummed with birdsong and the distant murmur of water.

And the water—oh, the water. A waterfall, not beside the house but within it, cascading through its very bones, flowing into a reflecting pool inlaid with ceramic tiles that shimmered like stained glass beneath the sun.

Inside, the house breathed. Hallways curled like ivy tendrils, staircases rose in sculptural spirals, and a wall of glass opened to the waterfall, where light danced in liquid ribbons across the floor. At the heart of it all stood a carved wooden chest.

A simple thing. A single drawer.

Locked inside? The secrets of the world.

Or so they said.

The chest murmured when closed, a whisper at the edge of hearing, as if the wood itself held memories. And when opened? Nothing. Nothing but scent.

And what does mystery smell like?

Lavender? Jasmine? Smoke from a candle just blown out?

Let’s ask the girl who lives here. She is the guardian of the secret.

But who is she?
What’s her name?
What does she know?
And—perhaps most importantly—who is she keeping the secret from?