Garden of unspoken things

If only flowers could hear us. The things we carry that have no words, no audience, no safe place to land. She bends toward the bloom not to pick it — but to confide in it. And the flower just listens. Doesn't judge. Doesn't advise. Just opens, quietly, in all its colour. This is the garden where everything unsaid finally finds somewhere to go. Where being heard doesn't require being understood. Just witnessed. Just held in beauty.