The faint smell of the creek – rotting leaves, algae, fish, and fresh water – was carried on a slight breeze that tickled the frayed prayer flags strung across the fence. Dappled sunlight fell on the garden below, illuminating purple flowers, exotic succulents, and creeping ivy. Fairies lived here. That much was certain.

A small metal tub – like the kind used for washing in the old days – was filled with water, the bottom covered with bits and pieces of broken, colored glass, a koi pond where the fish never died. Animals would come to drink here, a dog or cat during the day, a hummingbird or two as dusk fell, and later, a family of raccoons would descend from their hiding place to play with the glass fish and drink their fill of the cool, clear water.

Tchotchkes and nicknacks littered every pot, shelf, and stair in the yard. Rusted clocks, cracked mirrors, stone frogs, birds and squirrels, crazed porcelain toilet mugs and metal phone booths populated the miniature vignettes curated in whiskey barrels, tomato bins, and terracotta pots.

“It’s so the pixies and brownies, fairies and wood sprites have a place to call home,” she said when questioned about the layers of clutter dispersed around her yard.

In less capable hands, it would look more like a junk heap than a garden where magic thrived. But she took care to listen before she planted or placed anything, communing with the garden spirits and asking their opinion about a particular pot or plant or decoration before adding it to the collection, much like a designer would ask a homeowner if they preferred cerulean or robin’s egg blue in the breakfast nook.

All were welcome here; pets, woodland creatures, birds, men, women, and children. Strangers would find themselves inexplicably pulled off the main road, navigating their rental cars down a pothole-riddled dirt road until they came to a stop in front of her house.

“Can we take a picture?” They would ask. “This place is so lovely. So calm. So peaceful.”

And she would oblige – taking these new friends on a tour of her magical space, pointing out particular plants or decorations as she saw fit. They left feeling uplifted, hopeful, and full of wonder.

So season after season, year after year, magic came to rest in the garden of the woman who listened, thankful that it had not completely been erased from the world. Thankful that someone still cared enough to hold a space where it could rest.