In the silence beyond whispers, seeds whisper tales of might-have-beens. A room echoes not with voices, but with echoes of what could bloom, had the air been fertile. Invisible roots search endlessly, tracing patterns on ceilings of empty minds.
Somewhere between yesterday’s shadows and tomorrow’s fingertips, they hide. Not lost, but cloaked in the absence of light, waiting for a single beam of chance to illuminate their form. Each seed, a universe unbound by time or sight.
The door to perception creaks with every gentle touch of wind, allowing glimpses into forgotten gardens where reality sows itself anew. We walk barefoot, oblivious, yet there’s an inexplicable warmth in the paths we create.