By IMERPUS RELUR
--
The garden didn't bloom with flowers.
It bloomed with regrets.
Each petal held a name.
Each root a silence.
Imer stepped in.
The air reeked of memory.
> "This is where truths go when never spoken,"
a gardener whispered, without lips.
He knelt.
Touched a thorn.
It bled his name.
He left the garden, carrying one flower.
One apology he never gave.