Set into the dip between the green hills, the old stone cottage was wrapped in the scent of roses--carried on the wind and trailed by humming bees.

Behind the house, the unfenced garden spilled freely into the meadow. Lavender ran riot near the gate that once closed off the boreen, where foxgloves swept through the hedgerows.

A copper watering can lay against the back wall, beneath the spout--connected to the mains, but today half-full of the night’s rain. From the kitchen window, you could see a round stone bench beneath the old oak tree, where no one ever quite sat--but often paused.

It was here, on the evening of the Summer Solstice, that the butterfly arrived.

Her wings shimmered with the colours of milkweed and shadow, of candlelight and sleep. No one noticed anything at first--until a hush fell, like a bell held in the air just before it chimes.

Nell lived in the cottage with her grandmother, who had the gift of knowing. They were keepers of the garden--not by rule or order, but in the way old clocks are kept: gently, and only wound when the moment asks.

That evening, as the sun settled behind the hawthorn hedge, Nell whispered, “Gran, the light’s turning to honey."

And her grandmother, without looking up from her teacup, replied:“That means the Solstice is here. It’s the one night when time folds itself like a napkin, and dreams slip out the corners."

Nell giggled, but she half-believed her. She remembered a note she’d once found, tucked inside a fallen leaf, written in her own handwriting--though she swore she’d never written it.

Like a wish spun from butterfly wings,we dream to wake and wake to dream.

And tonight, as the sky bruised purple and the air turned still, she saw that same butterfly land on the old bench.

She heard the hush fall over the garden.And suddenly, everything was listening.The sweet peas held their breath.The ivy crept just a little.Even the day-moon appeared to swagger.

Nell held her grandmother’s hand. It felt like soft bark--silky and kind.They watched the butterfly flicker and rise. Where she passed, the garden lightened. The poppies opened wider. The night receded.

And then--she vanished.

That night, Nell dreamed of the garden.She saw children planting seeds beside empty wheelbarrows.She saw an old woman with silver hair dancing barefoot in the thyme.

When she woke the next morning, the bench beneath the oak was covered in tiny white feathers, soft as feathered wings.

Gran said nothing. But she smiled in that knowing way.

Later, as Nell wandered down the path, she noticed a length of twine strung between two winding hazel branches--fluttering with ribbons, paper scraps, and one long feather that caught the light.

A wishing line.

Nell knew then why the butterfly had come.

Some say this breed only visits when someone new is ready to believe again.