In the heart of an untouched botanical silence, the flora whispered not with voices but secrets—those submerged confessions you’d hear if the world were a little bolder. Curiously, it was the the old dusty gnome who first broke the spell of silence.
"On chilly nights, I overhear the conversations of sleeping garden weeds. They've plotted to replace the very earth under my feet with concrete," it murmured to a marigold whose petals danced imperceptibly in the breeze. "Can you imagine anything more scandalous?" it queried with a days-ago grin carved eternally in fiber-clay.
The marigold hung its head. "We all carry our own secrets, Gnome. I once dreamed of becoming a tree—now all I can do is watch the squirrels and their acrobatics in despair." The gnome, not one to divulge the truth of his own midnight revelations, simply nodded.
The wind was their only companion—a trickster with an arboreal heart who knew how to listen.
Quietly, it remained, their shared existence a sprawled tapestry of dirt and dew, reaching for the sky that stood out of reach.
Discover more whispers in the garden: Ruins | Echo