The silent screen flickers: shadows dance upon the walls, conveying tales of unseen worlds.
In the quiet of the garden, the whispers are louder than words, recounting long-forgotten philosophies.
One cannot speak without the other listening, sealed are their intentions within the soil's embrace.
"Do we truly understand what we plant?" she muses, glancing toward the horizon where whispers cease being heard.
Amongst the verdure, one transcribes what the breeze does say in a language fish cannot comprehend.
It was perhaps a crime of silence, no less tragic than that of one's uncared garden.
Navigate the Unsown Path