a memory of a garden

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.->1]]

Like magic (or, this is a dream, so perhaps nothing really applies here), as you walk, things of interest appear to you on the horizon. [[There are ruins, in the distance. Overgrown with roses, as everything is. It might have been a tower, once.->2]] [[There is a place where the flowers have grown more than anywhere. It forms a shield for something else. An emerald light flickers from deep inside, pulsing like a heartbeat.->3]] [[You could stand still and wait. Something would happen, if you did.->4]]

The ruins aren't hard to reach. It's hard to tell what this tower could have been for; the roses twine around pillars and carving, the spine of a broken staircase, settling in the stone like they've always belonged there. Leaving traces of themselves behind that refuse to fade. Even if they went away all at once, somehow, those permanent marks would remain. A fierce declaration of life. In the desolation of a tower, in its new role as a beginning for other things, the ghost of a memory rings out like a bell. It draws the attention like a beacon. //In a sound that echoes from the distant past, a memory surrounds you like scattered leaves. The flicker of images suggests a connection made, not fully formed. A small beginning that is now faded, but precious nonetheless. Kept dormant and sleeping in the heart. Its purpose is over; has long been over. But it remains a treasured memory. "I still remember these things. I go back to them," says a voice fond and distant. "You were kind to me then, though we've grown closer now. I was anxious, actually. I've never told you this, I think, but I was so nervous that you wouldn't like me. That I was being too annoying, or too overwhelming for you. You were fun, and you were nice, and it felt...like you were too good for me, I suppose. So I might as well say it now! It's easier to talk about these things, like this. Through this." There is the softness of a laugh, tinged with embarrassment. Those things, too, ring out in silence. Are faded but not lost.// [[You wander back, looking for something else.->1]]

In the protective shade of roses, you find one unlike any other. Its petals are shut tight; they unfold slowly at your approach, revealing something green and shining within. In the soul of a rose, something lingers in sound and light. //Light falls around you like wings, like an embrace. In a flash of light, the sound of a single heartbeat that lasts forever, you find a memory. It might be strange, to see yourself in a place you've never been. The garden you walk in here is similar to the one you are exploring now. The moon is shining high above. It can be night or day, whenever you want it to be. It's comfortable, here, regardless of the real temperature (and is there any real temperature, in a dream?); it's always comfortable. Wherever you walk, flowers bloom. Plants turn towards you, like they're attracted to the light inside. Your voice is soft as you sing; perhaps it sounds different than you're used to it being. It sounds the way you want it to, the way you know it can. A melody floats on the still air; the words are indistinct. The person whose memory this is feels content to sit and listen. There is a tone to this memory that feels like joy. "I like hearing you. I think you're worth listening to. I'm happy that you're singing. You're doing something you love, right? I'm sure of it. I'm proud, I think. Not that I was responsible for you, or the things you do. But I'm proud to be here, beside you. You have wings now. Or maybe you had them all along, and you're learning how to use them now. It's okay to stumble. You'll learn how to fly."// [[You fly out of the memory.->1]]

Petals dance around you like a storm, a hurricane. They whirl in patterns; they form shapes in the air. //This memory is hardly a memory at all, not visually. It is frail, and transient. It leaves traces of warmth, like having your hands held. Soft and quiet, a presence that is hardly there. "You're tired. You're so tired. I'm sorry. I wish I could carry more of your burdens." A voice from far away wavers. It sounds like it might cry.// [[These things are soft and fleeting, soon gone.->1]]