Welcome to Rose Manor, a summer stationery collection featuring hand-painted watercolors, climbing roses, and garden pathways! But all is not as it seems, and the manor has many a story to tell to those who will stop and listen.

Use the table below to skip ahead if you’d prefer, or keep reading to wander the mysterious manor grounds.

Letters From Rose Manor

Rose Manor is a strange and beautiful place. The old stone walls are overgrown with vines. The gardens are lush and well-kept, with sparkling fountains and sweet-scented pathways that never seem to reach an end. And the roses are always in bloom. 

No one lives here anymore, but visitors are always welcome to explore the grounds. If you do, pay close attention to your surroundings. It’s said that, twice a day, the air here grows very thin, and messages can pass through time. 

What secrets might you learn from the past? What lessons might you share with a fellow visitor in the future? 

Enter the gardens, if you dare, and discover what Rose Manor has in store for you…

The Window: Vivian’s Story

Dearest Visitor,

Perhaps you have heard the tale of the lonely girl in the tower bedroom. How she waited to be swept off her feet and whisked away into a grand, adventurous life. How long the years stretched, and how many times she whispered to herself that tomorrow would be different.

How many tomorrows were not, in fact, different at all.

That girl is me. And rest assured, my story ends happily. But it is not the ending I wish to tell you about today. It is the middle—those long years of waiting.

You see, my stay in the tower bedroom was always meant to be temporary. I believed it would be a short, transitional period. So I waited patiently, and I dreamed about the someday-future. I imagined the life I would build, the beauty I would surround myself with, the roots I would put down, the adventures I would pursue, the person I would become.

I left the walls bare. The table by the window empty. My relationship with the manor’s other occupants polite and surface-level.

I would be leaving soon, I told myself, so it didn’t matter.

But the months turned to years, and I remained there. And I realized that patience can become apathy if one is not careful.

Now, as I write this letter, I can tell you that I did not stay in that bedroom forever. I did go on to live all those adventures I once could only imagine. But the years I did spend there still would have passed, even if I had spent them more intentionally. I could have surrounded myself with beauty and adventure, even in that little bedroom, and lived even earlier as that person I knew I wanted to be.

Who knows? Perhaps my opportunity to venture out could have come sooner if I had not been sitting around and waiting for it to announce itself. Or perhaps it would have tarried just as long—but the years of waiting could have been warmer, sweeter, and less lonely in the meantime.

I advise you not to make the same mistake. Be patient, yes, and don’t be afraid of taking an interim period on your way to the life of your dreams. But don’t forget to live while you dream, and build while you wait.

The years will still pass, but they will pass more happily.
Signed,
Vivian

The Fountain: Eden’s Story

Dearest Visitor,

I invite you to sit for a moment beside this fountain. Watch the water leap from the top and flow to the lowest basin. And then imagine, if you will, all that water drying up.

I was once like that fountain run dry.

I had spent years pursuing other poeple’s ideas of what success looked like. And, I suppose, by their standards, I had indeed succeeded. I lived a comfortable life, for which I was truly grateful. But the line between “comfortable” and “unfulfilling” is terribly thin.

For as long as I could remember, I have felt a certain pull, so to speak: a drive to create, to dream, to step outside the bounds of what others in my life described as practical, safe, or even the only viable way to make a living. I suppressed that urge for far too long. But it never quite left me. It was like an insistent whisper, growing just a little louder each time I wondered to myself if yet another dull, gray day was really all I had to look forward to.

Eventually, I listened to that whisper. I tried to create something. But the years of disuse had cast the garden of my imagination into disrepair. My creative muscles had atrophied. The fountain’s pipes had rusted and cracked. Once upon a time, I had been luminous with ideas and excitement; now I could hardly summon a single spark of inspiration.

I nearly gave myself over to despair. But as I looked deep within myself, I discovered a single rosebush: overgrown and thorny, wild beyond belief, but dotted with little pink buds. Waiting.

Gingerly, I began to tend to those buds. To ask them questions, to trim away the dead branches, to study their color and shape. One by one, they bloomed. And as they slowly grew into something new and beautiful, the rest of my garden also woke from its slumber.

Make no mistake, this was no short and straightforward task. Some days, all I did was prick my fingers on the thorns and wonder if there would be any branches left after I finished pruning. But the more time I spent tending to the wellspring of my imagination, the easier it became, and the more it seemed to help shoulder the burden of healing itself.

These days, my mind is brimming with inspiration, and my roses grow fast and strong. But not because I reached some magical point of completion. I must tend to the garden of my creativity every day, lest it wither again.

If you have also found yourself scraping the bottom of a bone-dry fountain, then I hope my story encourages you not to give up. It is never too late to cultivate your creativity anew.

Signed,
Eden

The Arbor: Marion’s Story

Dearest Visitor,

There is a legend here at Rose Manor. They say that if you walk hand-in-hand with your lover under the rose arbor and follow the path all the way to the end, you will stay together forever.

Naturally, whilst visiting these gardens, my beloved and I decided to give it a try. We laced our fingers together and strolled down the path, admiring the beautiful roses that bloomed all around us. Occasionally, we stopped to breathe in their fragrance or remark on their vibrant color.

That walk felt like the longest and shortest walk of my life. The arbor stretches farther than you might think. We talked about anything and everything along the way—our dreams for the future, the time we had spent together thus far—and somewhere along the way, our steps began to slow. We realized, there under the roses, that we were both afraid the legend might be true after all, and perhaps we didn’t want it to be. Because, you see, our respective dreams forked into two paths, and there was no way to pursue one without abandoning the other. It was fertile ground for resentment.

And so, we stopped. We let go of each other’s hands, and we returned the way we had come. We said our goodbyes. We went our separate ways.

“What a waste,” you might say. Many have said so to me, upon hearing my story. “All those years together, all that time walking the arbor pathway, for nothing!”

But it wasn’t a waste at all. How could it be? I spent several happy years of my life loving and being loved in return. I spent a beautiful afternoon admiring the roses and sharing in conversation with someone who cared enough about me to be honest when they realized we were no longer compatible.

Happiness and love—however short or long-lived they may be—are their own reward, I say. Just because a story ends differently than you expected does not mean it wasn’t worth experiencing.

Remember this, my friend. To love another person is never a waste of time, no matter what anyone else may say or think about it.

Signed,
Marion

The Gazebo: Alethea’s Story

Dearest Visitor,

This gazebo is my favorite place in the world. In fact, for a time, it was the only place in the world that was truly mine.

This was my sanctuary, my fortress, the carefully guarded refuge where I could finally let down my defenses and simply be. The only place I never wore my mask.

I made a beautiful mask for myself, you see. One so perfectly proportioned and seamless that it could pass for my natural face. With that mask, I always wore a pleasant expression, always gave the right answers, never made others around me feel uncomfortable or put-upon.

Or so I wanted to believe.

It took a long time for me to admit to myself that the mask was cold and stiff, and that when I told people what I thought they wanted to hear… well, I might have guessed wrong.

Over time, my gazebo and my mask began to feel like two cells in the same prison. I wanted to take the mask off, to invite others into the gazebo with me, but I was afraid. Who would recognize my true face? Who would appreciate the inner walls of the gazebo, so aesthetically different from the parlor I had always used for entertaining guests?

I wish I could tell you that, one day, I simply threw off all these fears and my mask along with them. In reality, it was a gradual process of small brave moments compounding — so very slowly — into larger ones. One day, I’d let the mask slip ever so slightly. Sometimes so slightly that no one even noticed. Another day, I’d pull back the branches of a rosebush to allow someone the barest glimpse into the gazebo. Sometimes, I practiced walking in the garden without even carrying my mask in hand — but only when I was absolutely certain I would not meet anyone along the path.

In time, I learned that — yes — some people did prefer the mask. Some did turn up their noses at the gazebo’s interior. But, more often than I had expected, my maskless face and humble gazebo were not only accepted but appreciated. More importantly, I realized that I liked myself better unhidden and unburdened by the need to present a flawless facade.

I still treasure the refuge of my gazebo, still retreat into it when I need some time to myself. And some days I still reach for the mask in self-defense. But as frightening as it still can be to let my imperfections and passions show, I have learned that it is much more terrifying to hide one’s true self away in the vain hope of earning everyone else’s approval.

Signed,
Alethea

The Rose Manor Collection

Surround yourself, your workspace, and your loved ones with the magic of Rose Manor! The stationery collection includes six items featuring my original hand-painted watercolor designs.