In a garden untended, amidst muted whispers of grass, a baby lies cradled within the embrace of tiny sunward seeds.
The fragrance of potential mingles with the horizon's edge—vividly green and impossible, like dreams wrapped around realness.
The leaves, curious spectators, reflect a world skewed and stretched, a funhouse mirror bending the ordinary into the extraordinary.
What if the seeds dreamed themselves into something more? A child's laughter echoes back from the soil.
The air shimmers with the echoes of what hasn't been, a promise untouched, like the chime of a clock that never began to tick.