In the spring sunlight, the daisies whispered secrets of forgotten summers, fragments of laughter woven between their petals. She often walked this path, unseen now but felt in every rustle of leaf and stem.

"The scent of marigolds reminds me of home," he said once, his voice clear against the backdrop of rustling pines, a sound like distant waves lapping at a hidden shore. The garden he left behind still blooms, though he does not return.

Among the lavender, there was a time when promises lay thick as morning mist, ethereal yet grounding. Voices merged with the crisp air, carrying tales of resilience and quiet joys. They linger, suspended in time.

"Do you remember the roses?" she murmured, her words almost lost to the wind. They were wild and unruly, much like the thoughts we dared not speak. The garden listened, ever patient, a keeper of untold stories.