The Mourning GardenIn a garden kept from time, where petals never fully fall, the roses bloom in quiet grief and answer no ones call. Their velvet shadows hold the hush of names no longer said, of love once warm upon the skin now lingering instead. Each bloom a tender relic kept, each leaf a whispered trace a memory pressed in stillness, a softness none replace. And those who walk this hidden place will feel what lingers there: that nothing loved is ever lost it roots