The Language of Flowers, pyjamas, a secret passageway.

Bluebells rim the edges of path, their heads bobbing low under the unseasonably cold wind. Halfway down, a patch of white snowdrops breaks the lilac monotony. To most, this would just be an aberrant planting, bulbs gone awry in last year’s planting. But to those who know, this is the way - step off the path and you are elsewhere. It’s the middle of the night and I know I am not alone on this path. I hear steps closing behind me, and the snowbells are right there. Elsewhere is dangerous, but it’s safer than here. I leave the path.

Prompt provided by https://www.eadeverell.com/flash-fiction-prompts/