By Kyrastri/Plusle4eva/Divinescythe/Blinded by the Moonlight

Summary: You reach forward and open the gate. After all, there's nothing better than home sweet home.

A/N: Small mystery that I wrote a while ago. Enjoy (:


On the outskirts of a small bay town, there is a small cottage by the sea cliffs with a discoloured, patchy green roof and a faded red door. The stone walls are chipped and cracked and rotting wooden frames sat, the glass in them long gone.

The path leading to the front door is overgrown with moss and weeds finely coating the once-smooth stones marking the pathway. A rose bush, strangled by the sheer number of weeds, lay defeated, withered by time and stolen strength.

You remember the rose seed that gave birth to the now dead plant and you remember the emotions that hung in the air that lazy summer afternoon.

Then, with a twisted pang of guilt, you remember something else. That they, along with this cottage- this sad, desolate cottage- died fifteen years ago.


Once upon a lone autumn day, they lived. You, of all things, know that. A family of four- no, five- that lived in a cottage by the sea that never gave fish. Well,that's what papa always said. Day after day, he would row out on a small yellow fishing boat to look for fish. And day after day, he would return with an empty net and a toothy grin hidden in his wild, bushy beard.

He never told me, but no more fish came after I appeared.

I found out about it, but he never told me by himself. He was either a very foolish man, or a very kind one. I'm secretly hoping for the latter.

I thought he'd tell me someday, but I guess not. It was a real tragic event. Shipwreck. We couldn't find his body, but the yellow fishing boat washed ashore a week later. Mama cried for days.


There was no-one who loved plants more than mama. She was a really beautiful woman. She was incredibly modest and not vain in the slightest. She would sit out on the front porch, admiring her garden. She picked flowers and sold bouquets of flowers.

They said that her flowers, so full of love and care, never died.

Until it happened.

They said that the cause of the horrific fire was a cigarette butt that someone didn't put out properly and threw into a nearby pile of lumber. They had to drag mama away from her treasured garden, the fire dancing in her horrified eyes. Strangely enough, she didn't shed a single tear. The rose bush was the only one to survive. It was badly burned, but salvageable. She silently nursed the plant back to health, day after day.

The day its first flower bloomed, she passed away in her sleep.

I still think back to that fire that ravaged her garden. It was strange; no-one lived nearby and none of us smoked.


The two children that they had were twins, one boy and one girl. I'd forgotten their names over the years, but I always adored them, the sister especially. Names never lasted long, anyway.

The brother was a talented artist. He often claimed that he could see supernatural things, but everyone would laugh at it like a joke. Yes, we thought of it as a long, winding joke whose punchline was long overdue.

His works were amazing. He would paint anything, from mama's flowers to papa's yellow fishing boat, even sister's cello, though occasionally. He loved to paint the sea. He always said that the colours changed every time he painted it.

It changed when papa and mama died.

His works turned twisted; his works changed from cool greens and blues to vibrant yellows and reds. He shut himself in a lot, coming out only to eat the food left outside his art studio or to go to the toilet. He went crazier and crazier.

He blamed me for everything. "Why him?!" He would scream. We could hear it from across the house.

To be honest, I wouldn't blame him.

Anyway, he died in his room. We had to smash into his room- sister and I- to see the most horrific of deaths. He had been decapitated and mutilated; the whole lot. A limb was pinned on a canvas as if it was a twisted piece of art, the other limb was on the floor. His body lay on the table a pair of bloody garden shears sticking out of his chest. His head was lying on the chair, on its side. Even though sister quietly covered my eyes, the look of crazy terror on his face was unforgettable.

Later on I wondered how I didn't hear it, only to remember that he had a cloth covering his mouth.

But I guess I should have thought about it more.


Sister was a beautiful, talented youth. Not only was she a studious musician, she was also well versed in multiple languages. Everyone loved her. She wanted to follow in mama's footsteps and best of all, she loved me. She was the only one who didn't neglect me.

She is truly a wonderful person.

She believed in a paradise granted during what she called a deep sleep. Their hearts would stop the moment they reached the paradise.

I really hope it's true. It sounds like a lovely place.


On the outskirts of a small bay town, on a cliff over-looking the sea, a small cottage with a green roof and a red door stood, braving the harsh elements alone.

It had been abandoned many years ago, and locals often joked that it was haunted.

Of course, nobody laughed. They all thought to see a pale yellow fishing boat out in the sea, or a woman pruning plants that were long turned to ash, or the rhythmic strokes of an artist painting in his studio overlooking the ocean.

You turn your head away, your grip on your cello just that much tighter. It would make a wonderfully tragic composition, you decide. You turn to leave, but beckon someone to you. It's a small dog, the one you loved most dearly. He had been slower than usual, slower than you remembered.

As you walk away, you make a mental note to send him to paradise. You'd be coming along soon enough anyway.