2025.06.26
Every afternoon, at four o’clock, Jean sets a table in the garden of the forgetful conversation. The table was prepared in a white iron lace, remembering every guest who was sitting there once – though his name has long been blurred in the sun and the air. Jane, with your soft hands and the aroma of flowers, is the only one who knows how to invite them back.
That is the hostess of dreams, a curator of moments that never finished, just softened over time. Its role is not to speak, but to listen – from porcelain, echoes in the cups, from the breaths of chair cushions, for the laughter that once danced in the forest flowers. The pink bouquet is a memory arranged by it that is drawn from the border of waking and sleeping.
The garden exists somewhere between tomorrow and tomorrow, where colors are never settled quite and nothing really focuses. Jane welcomes visitors, not with words, but with presence. People who find gardens say that they feel like someone is already waiting. They strip the hidden tea, point to a partner they cannot name, and feel strange.
No one sees the gene clearly – its image is always out of reach, as memory you believe you have but can’t take place. But everyone feels it: On the back of your neck, the afternoon, the warmth of the sun, a familiar joy was wrapped in soft air.
His guests go without a farewell, but the gene remains, smooth the clothes, improves silence, reads the place that anyone needs to be kind and half.