Hidden beyond a crumbling stone archway, the garden breathes in silence. Vines coil around statues whose faces have long eroded, their expressions lost to time. The once-proud fountain at the center stands still, its basin dry, its carved figures covered in moss. Wildflowers push through cracked stone pathways, reclaiming what was once carefully tended.
The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming lavender, mingling with the faint trace of something older, memories perhaps, lingering like ghosts among the leaves. A wooden bench, worn and splintered, leans beneath an ancient willow, its branches cascading down like a veil, whispering in the breeze.
Some say the garden belonged to a great house, now long gone. Others believe it was never meant to be found, a secret place meant only for those who truly listen. The wind stirs, carrying with it the sound of rustling leaves, like a voice calling from another time. The statues watch in silence, their empty eyes fixed on the place where the fountain once sang.
Nothing moves. And yet, the garden is alive, breathing, waiting, remembering.
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