Echo didn't stop running — not when he reached the end of Greenstone Street, not when the city faded behind him. His feet pounded the cobblestones, his breath ragged, his chest burning with each gasp. Shadows blurred past. He didn't dare look back.
By the time he stumbled into the old garden, the world had gone quiet.
It was night. A pale, sickle-shaped moon hung in the sky, casting a faint silver sheen over everything. The stars were absent, swallowed by the dark. Wind slithered through the grass, carrying a brittle cold that bit into his skin.
Echo collapsed onto a wrought iron bench, its curving arms coiled like vines, the seat chilled with dew. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gasping for air. Sweat clung to his back and neck, soaking through his shirt, yet his breath steamed in the cold.
"I'm... sweating so much...."
He Wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, heart hammering like a frantic drum.
He glanced around the empty garden, scanning the shadows. There were no footsteps to be heard, no signs of any presence nearby. Just the rustle of branches and his own heartbeat, still racing.
Satisfied he wasn't being followed, he tugged off his fedora, letting the night air touch his damp hair. He let out a slow exhale. The breeze felt like ice sliding down his lungs. He unfastened the top buttons of his jacket, then peeled it off and tossed it beside him on the bench.
He rested on the bench, eyes fixed on the moon above — a pale watchful eye in the void. His breath slowed, body sinking deeper into the curve of the iron seat. Exhaustion crept through his limbs, until his head slumped and his vision slipped into black. The night passed in silence, and morning came swiftly.
Sunlight spilled across Echo's face. It pressed against his eyelids, prying them open. He stirred with a quiet groan, wincing at the sudden brightness. A breeze carried with it a soft medley of earthy scents — dew-soaked stone and the sweet perfume of wildflowers. The garden had changed.
What once looked like a forgotten courtyard now bloomed with life. Vines curled across every surface like veins beneath skin — wrapping around the iron bench, climbing the stone walls, overtaking the gate in the distance until it was swallowed in a cascade of green.
Moss carpeted the ground beneath his feet, tangled with fallen petals and creeping roots. The air buzzed softly with life — bees floated from bloom to bloom, harvesting nectar with purpose, while butterflies flitted between sunbeams.
The bench he'd slept on was no exception — it was covered now in a thin weave of vines and tiny budding flowers. He stared at it all, overwhelmed by the quiet beauty.
"This looks like... one of those ancient gardens in a fantasy movie."
Echo stretched, his joints cracking as he pulled his arms above his head. A dull ache sat in his spine, but it felt good to move. He turned back toward the old gate — the one he'd stumbled through last night. On the other side, the world looked empty. No people to be seen, nor no sound beyond the whisper of wind threading through the leaves.
He exhaled, as he began walking. With each step, petals crushed beneath his boots, releasing faint scents into the air. The deeper he moved into the garden, the greener everything became — wild and overgrown, but somehow peaceful. Nature was alive here. Crickets chirped unseen in the underbrush. Ants formed neat trails along the roots, marching with bits of leaves and crumbs held high like tiny flags. Birds sang somewhere above, unseen in the thick canopy.
He pushed past a curtain of vines, and there he found a tent.
Its fabric had once been blue and green, now faded and stained by time. It leaned slightly to one side, the poles creaking with age. Moss grew along the base, and a few feathers were caught in the flaps, fluttering with the breeze.
He narrowed his brows.
"Why is there a tent in a garden?"
Drawn by curiosity, Echo stepped closer. The tent was larger than it first appeared, its fabric stretching wide, colors of faded green and ocean blue woven together. At its peak stood a stained iron statue of a crow, rust streaking its wings.
He reached for the entrance — He pushed the curtain aside and stepped in. Darkness greeted him.
For a moment, all he could hear was the faint creak of the canvas above and the slow flicker of a match being struck. A candle flared to life in the corner, and another — each one casting its glow across the space, revealing more of the strange interior. The air smelled of wax and dry incense.
In the center stood a low wooden table, worn smooth by use. Cards lay scattered across its surface, surrounded by small stacks of silver coins and faded banknotes. A quiet tension hung in the air, like a breath held too long.
Two people sat behind the table.
One was a man — perhaps in his thirties — dressed in a sharp, old-fashioned suit. His hair slicked back and eyes calm. He looked like someone out of time. Beside him sat a woman, face hidden behind a ski mask that exposed only her eyes
"Ah, a young traveler."
the man said smoothly, his voice deep and composed.
He gestured to the empty seat across the table.
"Care for a game?"
".... Game? What's the prize?"
The man smiled, lifting a coin between two fingers. "These pounds are yours — if you win."
"Let's play Scorn, Three rounds. Win two, and you get your prize."
Echo sat without hesitation, the chair creaking under his weight. The man gave a small nod to the woman. The woman beside the gentleman began to shuffle the deck — forty cards in total, slipping between her fingers with practiced grace. She flicked three cards to Echo, then three to the man, the cards sliding cleanly across the velvet tabletop.
As Echo reached for the cards, a thought struck him. He didn't even know the rules.
"...'Sir,' how do you... actually play this 'Scorn' you mentioned?"
"No shame in asking, Most people bluff through the first round and lose their teeth."
He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers already fishing out a cigarette from an old silver case. His jacket hung loosely from his shoulders, pinstripes dull in the candlelight. He struck a match — not a lighter — and let the flame curl along the end of the cigarette, illuminating the sharp lines of his face.
"You get three cards." he explained between puffs. "Your goal's to get the lowest total value. Kings, Queens, Jokers — those are ten. Aces? One. Add up all your numbers, and if the total goes above ten, you only keep the last digit." He tapped the ash into a small dish shaped like a skull. "Simple. But there's strategy. You don't get to redraw. No trades. Play what you're dealt… or fold like a coward."
"Easy enough...."
He looked down at his cards: three of diamonds, six of hearts… and a king of hearts. His total was nineteen, the meant nine. He glaced up.
The man hadn't even looked at his cards yet. He simply rested a hand on them, cigarette smoke drifting lazily from his mouth.
"Your move, lad." he said, tapping ash once more. "Let's see what kind of luck you carry in your blood."
"Can I pull another card?" Echo asked, eyes darting between the man's calm gaze and the small stack of remaining cards.
"You can." the man replied, smoke curling from his lips. "But risk cuts both ways. Could be your fortune. Could be your ruin."
Echo's fingers hovered over the stack. He swallowed hard, heart thumping louder than it should. Something about this game felt heavier than it looked — the stakes ran deeper than pounds and coins.
He drew a card: Four of diamonds.
"Drawing a lower number than your hand? It subtracts from your total."
"So... nine minus four... that makes five."
With no ceremony, the man finally picked up his own cards, giving them a lazy glance before pulling one from the deck. He laid his hand out, one card at a time.
Two of spades, three of clubs, jack of hearts and his draw: six of hearts.
"Total of six." the man said, shrugging lightly. "Close. But not enough."
Echo's eyes widened slightly. He couldn't help it. A grin tugged at his lips as he laid his own cards down with a bit more flare: Three of diamonds, Six of hearts, King of hearts, Four of diamonds.
"Nine minus four. Five. Did I win?"
The man's grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Congrats, kid. Beginner's luck."
He leaned back again, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray.
"Don't get cocky. We're not finished."
The masked woman reached forward, gathering the discarded cards with precise, soundless motions. She stacked the used ones, then lifted the untouched deck and began to shuffle — again, smoothly, effortlessly. The motion almost hypnotized Echo. Cards whispered against each other like falling leaves. Then she dealt three to the man. Three to Echo.
They landed gently on the velvet, edges glinting in the flickering candlelight. Round two had begun.
Echo gave his cards a quick glance beneath the table's edge, heart sinking the moment he saw the faces staring back: King of spades. Queen of hearts. Jack of diamonds. Ten. Ten. Ten. A perfect hand — if the goal had been to lose. Nervous energy made his legs shake.
He kept his expression neutral, eyes lifting to the man across from him. The gentleman hadn't moved yet — his fingers rested lightly on his cards. He gave no signal. Just a long, steady gaze as he finally reached out and slid a card from the draw pile with a flick of his wrist. Without thinking, Echo did the same, drawing a card of his own: Seven of hearts.
His total stayed the same — still a perfect storm of misfortune. A score of seven. His gut turned.
The man exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, then tossed his cards down with elegance, fanned perfectly on the velvet: Two of clubs. Three of hearts. Two of hearts. Five of clubs. A total of two — clean and precise.
Echo winced internally but kept his face straight. He looked once to the silent woman, still statuesque and composed, then to the man's cool, gaze. Slowly, with a touch of resignation, he laid his own hand on the table — one card at a time: King. Queen. Jack. Seven, a perfect loss.
The man leaned forward, cigarette clamped between his teeth, and gave a slow, approving nod. "Now that's more like it."
Echo gave a stiff smile and nodded back.
"Good game."
"No such thing as a good loss, lad. But I respect the grace."
The woman reached forward again, hands fluid and silent, clearing the cards for the final round. She gathered the scattered cards with a sweep of her fingers, reshuffling with a flourish. Her hands moved like dancers — cutting, bridging, flipping the deck with such speed and precision that Echo nearly lost track of the motion. The rhythmic snap of each shuffle filled the tent, hypnotic and disorienting. Echo blinked, his head lightly spinning from watching too long.
With practiced grace, she flicked three cards to each of them — First to the man and then Echo. Each card landing perfectly in place with a soft whff on the velvet table.
Echo hesitated, holding his cards but unwilling to look. His fingers twitched. He glanced first at the man across from him.
The gentleman's eyes were downcast, his cards resting beneath one hand. Smoke curled around his face, trailing like a lazy ghost toward the tent's ceiling. Not a twitch gave anything away.
Echo swallowed, steeling himself, then turned his hand: Four of diamonds. Two of hearts. Two of hearts, a total of eight.
He couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips. It wasn't perfect, but it was strong — low enough to give him real hope.
The man didn't pull. Echo didn't want to seem slow and got suspicious as well, so he quickly followed suit, drawing one more: Four of spades. His score dropped to two. His fingers gripped the edge of the table.
"Ain't no way he's beating me now."
he barely able to contain the thrill rising in his chest.
The man glanced up and gave a slow smile at him. Without a word, the gentleman laid down his hand.
Three of hearts. Six of diamonds. Two of clubs.
"…No way."
He stared at the cards, counting the total in his head. One. The man had one, he had two. One point.
Echo slumped in his seat, groaning as he tossed his own cards onto the velvet.
The man dragged on his cigarette.
"Nice try, kid. Real close. But close doesn't win prizes."
The woman silently collected the cards again, already preparing to put the deck away.
Echo leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face.
"... Damn it. I thought I had him."
The gentleman leaned forward slightly, voice lower and laced with something almost like respect.
"For a first-time player? You nearly did."
The man exhaled a long plume of smoke, then smiled as he ground out the cigarette in the skull-shaped ashtray.
"…. I'm feeling generous today."
He rose from his chair with a quiet creak of leather, the candlelight catching the lines in his pinstriped coat as he reached across the table. With one hand, he gathered the scattered winnings — three shimmering gold coins and four folded pounds — and held them out.
"Here. Take it."
The gentleman gave a faint shrug.
"You played with guts. That deserves a proper breakfast, at least."
He extended his arm, hand open — the coins catching the faint gold glow of the lantern. Echo stared for a moment, then quickly reached forward, taking both the money and the handshake in one motion.
"Thank you!"
"But do me a favor — don't lose it all on some sausage vendor with bad hygiene."
With that, he turned on his heel and ran out of the tent, the flap swinging wide behind him and letting in a wash of morning light.
The man stood there a moment longer, brushing a bit of ash off his sleeve. The woman said nothing, but her eyes followed Echo as he vanished from view.
"Kid's got teeth."
Then he sat back down, relit a new cigarette.
The woman's voice broke the lingering silence, soft but edged with dry amusement.
"Yes, he's got teeth, sir.
Not like you."
The man turned his head slowly, one brow lifting.
"…What's wrong with my teeth?"
She didn't answer right away — instead, she began stacking the cards, one by one, the corners clicking softly in her gloved fingers. A faint smile tugged at her lips, though she didn't look up.
"I've seen sharper fangs on a boiled potato."
The man narrowed his eyes, offended. He leaned forward, tapping a finger against his jaw.
"These teeth have survived three knife fights, two duels, and one especially bitter divorce in Veirdale."
"Exactly."
He grabbed a tin from his coat pocket, and flicked it open with a snap — revealing an old mint and a cracked toothpick.
"You're lucky I like your shuffling more than your commentary."
She finally looked up.
"And you're lucky you still have a face."
They sat in silence again, candlelight flickering between them. The air smelled faintly of smoke and lavender-scented wax.
Outside, the world brightened — the garden alive with wind, birdsong, and the fading sound of a boy's footsteps.