Mid Spring, A Quiet Day in the Gardens

Today was calm.

Truly calm.

There were no bells beneath the foundations, no movement from the lower halls, and no distant music wandering through the pipes after midnight. There was only rainwater dripping from the conservatory glass and a gentle breeze stirring the ivy along the garden walls.

I found myself wondering whether the Archive had decided I needed a day of rest. That thought probably ought to concern me more than it does.

I spent most of the morning tending the moss beds surrounding the eastern statues. Spring has arrived in earnest now. Ivy has reclaimed several of the garden paths, and small white flowers have appeared beside the fountain despite there being very little soil beneath the stone. The Archive has always been rather selective about where it chooses to encourage life, and I stopped questioning its gardening preferences a very long time ago.

Clio remained beside me for nearly the entire day. She was not watchful, merely content. She slept along the garden wall while I worked, occasionally extending a single paw whenever a strand of ivy drifted close enough to deserve investigation. More often than not, the ivy escaped unharmed.

Several times I caught myself smiling.

Once or twice I even laughed.

It has been longer than I realised since that felt entirely natural.

Muninn arrived shortly before dusk carrying a collection of tiny silver objects, which he deposited beside the fountain with great care and unmistakable pride. There were three buttons, a bent key, and a coin worn so smooth that no marking remained. They were treasures, at least as far as he was concerned.

I admired each one with the seriousness the occasion deserved and left them exactly where he had arranged them. He appeared entirely satisfied with my judgement.

The conservatory was particularly beautiful this evening. When the rain finally cleared near sunset, warm light poured through the glass roof until the entire garden glowed gold for a few precious minutes before evening settled gently over the Archive once again.

For a little while everything felt almost ordinary.

Not normal. The Archive has never been anything so straightforward.

But familiar.

Comforting.

It reminded me how much of this place is still kind.

Lately I have spent so much time watching the Archive for signs of danger that I had almost forgotten the quieter things that have always sustained it: the gardens, warm furnace pipes on cold evenings, the scent of old paper after rain, and the small creatures sleeping safely in hidden corners of the conservatories. There is comfort in preserving something so carefully that it no longer needs to fear being lost.

Then there is Clio asleep nearby, and Muninn returning with pockets full of impossible little gifts, entirely convinced that every curious object deserves a home.

Perhaps he is right.

There are days when the Archive feels less like isolation and more like stewardship. I have occasionally wondered whether I remained here because I was needed, but on days like this the answer feels much simpler. This place has become a sanctuary, not only for the things I preserve, but for those of us who have spent long enough within its walls to become part of it.

Tonight the study windows are open. Cool air drifts softly through the room while the sea moves quietly against the cliffs below. Clio is asleep across the foot of my bed, and Muninn is somewhere in the conservatory rafters, no doubt keeping a watchful eye on his carefully curated collection beside the fountain.

For the first time in several days, I think I may sleep without dreaming of the sea.

If I dream at all, I rather hope it is of the gardens.

— M