I grew up in a large house in what seemed like the middle of nowhere to me when I was younger. To pass the time, me and my brother would make up stories, imagining all sorts of wondrous creatures that lived in the woods around us. One of our favourites was faeries. We spent weeks making a faerie garden under a large tree by the house, and spent ages there, leaving offerings of sweets and glass crystals occasionally. One night, we were outside with our parents, and no matter what they say, I know I wasn’t asleep. I remember my dreams well, but have always been able to distinguish them from reality. We were by the faerie garden, and while I don’t remember exactly what day it was, I know it was warm, it was dark, we were looking for fireflies. Probably June. I remember seeing wonderfully colourful lights floating all around us, all warm shades of orange and red and pink and yellow, with some in hues of purple and blue. They were large, but not so large that I didn’t think they were fireflies at first. I was young, and that was the only thing I thought they could be. I don’t know what happened after that, but soon enough I was in bed, thinking of those lights. I have brought up that night to my parents many times over the years, even to my brother, but they always say that they remember no such thing happening, and my brother denies ever truly wanting to make the faerie garden with me, despite how enthusiastic he used to be. Now, the garden sits abandoned and forgotten. It hurts to see it like that to some extent, but it doesn’t feel the same as it used to and I don’t think I could bring myself to enter it. Not anymore.