PART 1: THE MIDNIGHT GHOST

Chapter 1: The Man Who Never Sleeps

Julian Thorne never slept before three in the morning. It was a curse, or perhaps the price to pay for the billion-dollar fortune he possessed. At 34, Julian had everything a man could desire: power on Wall Street, the cold handsome looks of a Greek statue, and Blackwood Manor – an ancient castle isolated amidst the vast pine forests of New England.

But Julian hated this place. He hated its eerie silence. He hated the long, drafty corridors hung with portraits of ancestors. And above all, he hated how the memory of his late wife, Eleanor, still lurked in every corner, especially the rear garden – a place that had been sealed off for three years.

Tonight, as usual, Julian stood by the third-floor window, holding a glass of single malt Scotch, his ash-gray eyes staring down into the thick darkness.

And he saw her again.

A small figure slipped through the kitchen’s side door, stepping quickly into the shadows of the garden. Her chestnut brown hair flowed down, her thin nightgown fluttering in the night wind.

It was Maya, the maid hired just two months ago.

Maya was only 22, an art student who had dropped out due to family circumstances. She had large round eyes that always looked down at the floor whenever Julian passed by, and tapering fingers that were calloused from hard labor. A quiet, obedient girl, and according to the housekeeper, “as pure as a blank sheet of paper.”

“Pure?” Julian muttered, taking a sip of the burning liquor.

This was the seventh consecutive night Maya had snuck out. Where was she going at this hour? Meeting whom? Blackwood Manor was ten miles from the nearest town. There was no cell signal in the back garden area.

Julian looked at his watch. 12:15 AM.

He waited patiently. Curiosity mixed with an uncomfortable feeling – the irrational jealousy of a man used to possessing – began to kindle within him.

Three hours later. 03:20 AM.

The small figure returned.

Under the yellow light of the porch, Julian narrowed his eyes. Maya looked pathetic. Her messy hair was stuck with leaves and soil. Her nightgown was disheveled, stained with black streaks. She walked with a limp, her bare feet covered in mud. She stopped at the door, panting, her thin shoulders trembling, then glanced around furtively before slipping into the house like a stray cat that had just been in a fight.

An image flashed in Julian’s mind, naked and cruel. A secret rendezvous in the woods? With the gardener? Or some poacher? That “disheveled” look, that exhaustion… it suggested thoughts of debauchery.

Julian gripped his glass until his knuckles turned white. He had once believed in innocence. And that innocence had betrayed him, just as Eleanor had left him alone in this world.

“Very well, Maya,” Julian whispered against the cold glass. “Tomorrow night, we shall see what you are hiding in the dark.”

Chapter 2: The Hunt

The next night, a light rain fell. The chill of the New England autumn began to seep into the bones.

At exactly midnight, Maya appeared again. She wore a baggy coat over her nightgown, carrying a heavy canvas bag. She tiptoed across the wet lawn, heading straight for the pine forest leading to the cliff behind the manor.

Julian was ready. He wore all black, blending into the shadows of the stone corridor. He waited for her to disappear behind the cypress hedge before he began to follow.

He was a seasoned hunter in the business world, and those skills were equally useful in tracking a young girl. He kept his distance, walking on the bed of wet pine needles to avoid making noise.

Maya walked very fast; she seemed to have memorized every tree stump and stone. She didn’t go toward the main gate, nor toward the gardeners’ shed. She went deep into the forbidden zone – where Julian had ordered no one to trespass: The Victorian Conservatory.

It was a magnificent glass and steel structure from the 19th century, once Eleanor’s pride. She had spent her life caring for rare orchid species there. But since the day she died of a sudden illness right inside that very conservatory, Julian had locked it tight. He left it to the weeds and time to swallow it whole, as if to bury his pain.

Why would Maya go there?

Julian saw Maya stop in front of the rusted iron gate covered in vines. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket – the keys Julian thought he had thrown into the lake. She unlocked it, the dry creak drowned out by the wind. She slipped inside, then closed the door.

A faint light, flickering like a candle, flared up inside the dusty, opaque glass.

Julian moved closer. He hid behind a statue of an angel with a broken wing, trying to look through the broken panes.

The scene inside made his heart skip a beat.

There was no man. There was no carnal rendezvous.

Only Maya.

She had taken off the baggy coat, wearing only an old tank top and stained overalls. She was… working.

She was using a small trowel to turn over each bed of dry soil. She pulled up the overgrown thorny weeds, her bare hands without gloves grasping tightly onto the prickly stems. Blood oozed from scratches on her pale arms, mixing with the mud, but she didn’t seem to feel the pain.

She worked like a madwoman, as if racing against time. Sweat ran down her delicate face, plastering strands of hair to her forehead. Occasionally, she stopped, exhaled sharply, wiped her forehead with her hand, leaving a smudge of black dirt, and then continued.

Julian looked at the canvas bag she brought. Inside were not personal items, but… fertilizer? And tiny seedlings carefully wrapped.

She was trying to revive this dead garden. Alone. In the dark.

Why?

Julian intended to push the door open, to question her about this trespassing. But then, he saw Maya stop. She walked to the center of the conservatory, where a dried-up fountain stood. She knelt there, took something out from her bosom, and placed it on the stone pedestal.

Under the light of the camping lantern, Julian realized it was a small photo frame.

Maya clasped her hands in prayer, her shoulders shaking. She was crying. The sobbing, choking sound echoed in the space of broken glass, sounding lonely and heartbreakingly tragic.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m late…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Julian stood rooted to the spot. His initial anger had vanished, replaced by extreme bewilderment. Who was this girl crying for? Why was she torturing herself to care for his wife’s garden?

He backed away, silently returning to the manor. That night, for the first time in three years, Julian lay in bed thinking about a woman other than Eleanor.

PART 2: THE BLOOD ROSE AND SALVATION

Chapter 3: The Truth Exposed

The next morning, Maya served breakfast to Julian as usual. She wore her maid uniform neatly, high collar and long sleeves covering her wounds. But Julian still saw the fatigue in the depths of her eyes, and the slight limp she tried to hide.

“Did you sleep well last night, Maya?” Julian asked, holding the newspaper but his eyes fixed on her.

Maya startled, the silver spoon in her hand clinking against the porcelain plate. “Yes… very well, sir.”

“Is that so?” Julian put the newspaper down. “I find you look… exhausted. As if you’ve been working all night.”

Maya’s face went pale. She lowered her head further. “I… I just had a little trouble sleeping.”

Julian stood up, walking slowly toward her. He grabbed her wrist – right where the long sleeve covered it. Maya whimpered softly in pain. Julian pulled up her sleeve.

Jagged scratches, swollen and red, appeared on her white skin. They were scratches from wild rose thorns.

“Trouble sleeping caused these wounds?” Julian’s voice lowered, full of authority. “Explain yourself. Or shall I call the police for trespassing and vandalism?”

Maya trembled, tears welling up. She fell to her knees at his feet.

“Please, sir… don’t fire me. I beg you…”

“Why were you at the Victorian Conservatory?”

Maya looked up, her tear-filled eyes looking straight at him. The fear remained, but something stronger was rising.

“Because of a promise,” she said.

“A promise to whom?”

“To my benefactor. Madam Eleanor.”

The name of his late wife stunned Julian. He let go of her hand, stepping back. “You knew Eleanor?”

“Three years ago,” Maya began to recount, her voice choked. “I was a student receiving a scholarship from Madam Eleanor’s charity fund. When my mother became seriously ill and needed a kidney transplant, I was at a dead end. I intended to drop out of school to work… doing indecent things.”

Maya took a deep breath. “It was Madam Eleanor who found me. She paid all of my mother’s hospital bills. She said she saw the passion for art in me. She didn’t need me to pay her back. She only had one wish.”

Julian felt his throat go dry. “What wish?”

“She knew she was dying,” Maya said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “She said you loved that garden very much, especially the Black Velvet Rose variety you two bred together. She was afraid that after she was gone, you would neglect it out of grief, or destroy it. She made me promise that if one day the garden fell into ruin, I had to come back, use my own hands to revive it. So that when you saw the flowers bloom, you would know… she was always there, loving you.”

Maya took a yellowed letter out of her apron pocket, carefully wrapped in plastic. She handed it to Julian with trembling hands.

Julian opened the letter. Eleanor’s soft, familiar handwriting struck his eyes.

“To my beloved Julian. If you are reading this letter, it means little Maya has kept her promise. Do not blame her. I know you will be in pain, will lock yourself in darkness. But I don’t want you to die slowly with me. I want the garden to live again, and I want your heart to do the same. Look at the flowers blooming from the barren soil, Julian. Life always finds a way to flourish from death. Live for me too. Love you forever.”

Julian collapsed into the chair. The letter fell from his hand. Hot tears, suppressed for three years, now burst forth. He had turned pain into coldness, love into denial. He had let the garden die thinking it was the only way to forget. But Eleanor, even near death, only thought of him.

And this little girl, Maya, had silently endured hardship, misunderstanding, using her artist’s hands to dig through rocks and soil, suffering thorns, just to keep a promise to the deceased, to bring a little hope to him.

Chapter 4: The Garden Reborn

That night, Julian didn’t stand at the window looking down.

He wore old gardening clothes, rolled up his sleeves, and walked out of the kitchen. Maya was there, struggling with a giant dry tree stump blocking the path in the conservatory.

She startled when she saw him, about to drop her shovel.

“Sir…”

Julian said nothing. He walked over, took the pickaxe from the corner. He swung hard, striking the dry stump. One blow. Two blows. Rotten wood flew everywhere.

“Don’t just stand there,” Julian said, his voice hoarse but no longer cold. “This stump is very tough. I need you to lend a hand.”

Maya was stunned for a moment, then a relieved smile, radiant as dawn, bloomed on her lips. She nodded, continuing her work.

That night, and many nights after, people no longer saw the lonely billionaire drinking alone. They saw two figures, one tall, one small, covered in mud, working diligently under flashlight beams beneath the glass dome.

They didn’t talk much. The sound of hoeing, the sound of pruning leaves replaced words. Julian taught Maya how to graft branches. Maya taught Julian how to see beauty in imperfection. The wounds on Maya’s hands healed, replaced by tougher calluses. And the wound in Julian’s heart did too.

Six months later.

On a brilliant spring morning, Julian woke up not because of the alarm, but because of a scent.

A passionate, seductive scent creeping into the bedroom. The scent of roses.

He rushed out to the balcony.

Below, the Victorian Conservatory was no longer a gloomy ruin. The glass had been cleaned, reflecting the sunlight sparkling like a giant diamond. The doors were wide open.

And inside, it was flooded with a regal crimson color. The Black Velvet Roses – Eleanor’s legendary flower – were in full bloom. Hundreds of flowers stretched proudly on thorny branches, dazzlingly brilliant.

Julian ran down to the garden like a child. He stepped into the conservatory, overwhelmed by the intense life surrounding him.

In the middle of the garden, next to the fountain that was now trickling, Maya stood there. She wore a simple white dress, holding a watering can. Sunlight streamed through the glass roof, creating a halo around her.

She turned to look at him, smiling. Not the timid smile of a maid, but the confident smile of a friend, a soulmate.

“It has bloomed, Julian,” she said softly.

Julian stepped forward. He didn’t look at the flowers. He looked at Maya. He saw in her brown eyes the reflection of himself – a man who had been healed.

He realized, Eleanor was right. Life always finds a way to flourish. But Eleanor didn’t just leave him flowers. She had sent him another seed, a seed of love and silent sacrifice.

Julian reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind Maya’s ear, his finger touching a faint scar on her cheek from a branch graze.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice trembling. “For bringing spring back to Blackwood.”

Maya closed her eyes, enjoying his warm touch. “She would be very happy.”

“I know,” Julian whispered, leaning closer. “But right now, the happiest person is me.”

Amidst thousands of mysterious black velvet roses, their first kiss tasted of the salt of past tears and the sweetness of the future. Blackwood Manor was no longer cold. It had a new heart, beating strongly and passionately, right in the middle of the revived Eden garden.