Beneath the soil, beneath the secrets, there lies a garden untouched by the passage of time. Here, the air is thick with the scent of unresolved conversations, the echoes of which dance faintly upon the murmurs of the soil. Each breeze is a letter, forgotten yet not erased, sent from the past to the present.
— The garden, a symphony of silence and shadows.
Once, the paths here were clear, etched in the dirt by footsteps of those who dared to wander. Now, they weave like thoughts meandering through a mind too accustomed to the noise of the world. Memories are like palimpsests scratched into the earth — one story obscuring another, only to surface with the rain.
Touch me with your thoughts, for I am a whisper.
Like the layers of a forgotten manuscript, the garden conceals and reveals, speaking to those who listen with ears made of leaves and roots made of dreams.