The air is soft here. The clouds are rose-pink. Each breath is filled with the scent of flowers in bloom.

Here, in this garden, in a fond dream, the flowers bloom as long as you want them to. Roses of every colour shine like a rainbow; they turn their heads, a little, to watch you pass. They stretch out as far as the eye can see, flourishing, surviving.

Rose petals ride the air like gentle rain around you, following you like royalty.

"I spoke to you of a garden once, but it's all right if you don't remember it," murmurs the echo of a distant voice.

"My memories of you are here. This was the first place I thought of to keep them.

This dream loves you, very much. No matter where you go, my memories will make themselves known to you."


It seems odd to walk in a field that has no landmarks and no discernible end, but perhaps things will be made clearer to you as you go on.