The Persistence of Rust and Rain

The iron gate is a skeleton of red dust, yielding to the ivy’s slow, green tide. Here, the city’s roar is muffled by moss, a velvet silence creeping over cracked brick.

Sunlight filters through the ribs of a fire escape, casting striped shadows on the buried sundial. Time here doesn't march; it pools in the basins of upturned leaves and discarded porcelain.

A single foxglove rises from the rubble, a purple bell ringing in the draft of a passing train. The scent of wet earth and ancient damp overwhelms the exhaust of the street beyond.

We are the ghosts of what we planted, seeds carried by the wind and the soles of boots. The garden remembers the hand that left it, flourishing now in the freedom of being forgotten.