In the whispers under the cracked cobblestones, flowers bloom only in the shadows. Paths, unseen and unfolded, twist through the fog tinged with memories of laughter. The clattering of keys long forgotten echoes nearby—a chorus of unlocking doors, secrets spilling through the hinges, whispers caught between night and dawn. One step, two steps into the garden lost to time.
Here, nothing is as it seems. The vine-clad statues shift behind half-closed eyes, the air tinged pink with blooming silence. Instructions are etched into the bark of trees in languages once spoken by stars. You follow them not knowingly, but rather, they call like sirens beyond the scrolling screens of mundane reality. Does the path unfold, or do you?
A note tied to a peony reads: Find the color of yesterday's song. The petals tremble at the utterance, revealing numbers and symbols unseen until now. Dive deeper into the layers of earth and whispers, where the air thickens, and the garden breathes. Step lightly into the memory lanes, where reality dips into surreality and asks, "Are you still there?"