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On Thursday morning, a box was left outside the door of Agatha Nylund.

Agatha,
I'm not one for dances. But if all of the vampires and Hot Shreks of the world too busy playing the bleeding nitwit to see what's in front of them, this is me asking.

—Axel

Inside the box, was a magical clear glass rose. enchanted so that whenever Agatha looked into one of the petals, she could see a different rose garden.

As the sun begins to set, it becomes apparent where all the wisps have gone. Peter's treehouse and its branches glow gold with their light, bright in the fog. The rope bridge leading up to it, that had been recently repaired, has been cut again and hangs limply off the cliffside. There's no obvious way to access the island without flying or climbing.

To the attuned, the aura of melancholy that surrounds this place is overwhelming. There's very little movement and very little sound coming from the treehouse itself; only the rush of a waterfall and the rain beating down.