The petals spoke in tongues lost to the linear mind, their cadence a clockwork symphony in rusted gears. Here lies the secret of things not seen, a map etched in the dew upon leaves.
A moth, its wings a tapestry of night, paused at the edge of reality—awaiting the turn of time’s inexorable wheel to reveal what must be.
Listen to the whispers, dear traveler. They spin tales of what has been and what never was, in a garden where thoughts bloom like odyssey roses.
What blooms beyond sight but is felt in the marrow? The answer lies in the ticking silence of a clockwork garden.