Jenny continued down the corridor, the light growing brighter, until she emerged into a vast open space that took her breath away. She stood in a palace. The ceiling stretched high, arched with delicate carvings of stars, and the walls shimmered with tapestries depicting scenes of lush landscapes and elegant figures. Marble floors spread out beneath her, polished and pristine, and at the center of the room stood a grand fountain, its waters clear and rippling as if someone had just passed through.
As she wandered through the rooms, each one seemed to be more exquisite than the last: a library filled with ancient books, their covers richly embossed; a ballroom with chandeliers made of crystal that glinted with every movement she made; a garden room where delicate flowers bloomed, despite the lack of sunlight.
Jenny found a small study tucked away in a corner, where a leather-bound journal lay open on a desk. It was her grandfather’s handwriting, elegant and flowing. The journal described how he had discovered the palace when he was just a boy, a place that seemed to live and breathe on its own. It was a retreat, a world within a world, a palace hidden away from time and age. He had tended to it, even after he grew old, cleaning the rooms and keeping its secrets.
One passage caught her eye: “The palace belongs to those who need it, a refuge and a home to those who seek the extraordinary. I trust one day, it will find a worthy caretaker again.”