A Garden Beneath the Stone

She does not speak, for the spring knows her name. In the hush of the grotto, where time forgets to move, she sits with the stillness of something ancient and beloved. The forest leans in, listening. Sunlight drips like gold through the leaves, touching her shoulders like memory. Around her, moss breathes, and the water hums a lullaby only the old earth remembers. She is neither myth nor woman—only the dream that returns when the world grows quiet.