I drift through the garden's eerie embrace, my footsteps muted by an unseen force. Long has the path been walked, and yet I am unsure how it forms beneath my weary soul. I have heard the faintest whispers of laughter, trailing like petals in a breeze, but they meet no eyes and yield no comfort.
"Here lie fragments of time
that scurry like shadows,
chasing the flicker..."
"Fades like old photographs
beneath the weight of
rain-soaked dreams."
Trees twist and contort into sculptures of longing. Their white leaves shimmer with stories untold—tales only a dream can whisper. I am here, yet not, anchoring my existence to the beat of something primordial. The earth breathes; its sighs echo starkly against the void of my perception.
Will you cultivate these flowers of memory? Their roots tap into currents that pre-date your understanding, blossoming into ethereal blooms that mock the gravity of reality. Unravel their secrets, if you dare, or wander through another corridor entwined in specters.
I no longer know if I'm a caretaker or merely an observer. My hands stretch to touch the translucent petals, and for a moment, I feel them breathe beneath my fingers. They pulse with a rhythm apart from the clamor of light and shadow—an echo from a time when the world was not so cordoned by lines and maps.