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My favourite part of the day, my afternoon stroll around the garden. It’s where I unpack my day, and process the often unthinkable.

My time to ground, to balance good and evil so to speak.

The perfectly manicured paths, lush green foliage, and palette of fragrant colours, the perfect surrounds to declutter one’s mind.

It’s a bit of a ritual, each stroll ending in the rose garden, where I sit on the filigree wrought iron bench. The same bench that has been there for a century, aged to perfection, just the right amount of flecked white paint left to authenticate its age. I imagine my ancestors, taking the same path, smelling the same glorious symphony of scents, as they neared the mosaic of colour.

My favourite, the rambling little tea roses that softened the edges of the maze like enclosure. They grow so much each year, tumbling over each other, cascading shades of pink, lush and inviting.

As I neared the entrance I realised it didn’t seem as fragrant as usual. In fact nothing seemed as it usually did. Why had I not noticed sooner?

I stopped in my stride, there was a heaviness in the air, not at all the usual light dusk haze that I was accustom to. It was then that I realised all the roses were wilted. It took me a moment to comprehend, but when I did, I knew it could only mean one thing. Turning, instant panic, I ran frantically towards the house…