2025.06.27
Every morning, Jain used to sit quietly in the light of the garden, where the sketch of memory shone more than the shapes. It was the echo of the garden, a listener of the forgotten laughter, who gathered the resonance that was left behind in a confused grass and sun -filled metal.
His job was not to be harvested or water, but it was to be included.
Long ago, in this garden was full of visitors – friends pull tea, the secrets of the lovers of love, children chas butterflies. Their voices, once dynamic, were erased in the dust of the garden, trapped like a jirg in the air at the end of the summer. Most people were unaware, but Jane could hear them.
She would sit in the air in the morning, her hand resting slowly on the edge of the table, letting the vibrations rise. The chair with her will probably whisper a song through a grandmother. Flower Pot can once echo one’s breath once in love. These soft pulses – neither sound nor silence – opened like pages in Jane’s brain. She didn’t talk to them in a loud voice. He heard it easily, his presence is enough to open them.
One morning, he heard a new echo. Unconscious, uncertain it was her own voice, at a time when she also believed in an endless afternoon. It was a reminder that she was not always listening – once, she was a part of laughter. Tears flowed in his eyes, but he smiled.
On that day, Jane surpassed a new echo – her soft laughter, warm and light, like silk was folded into the air.
From now on for years, someone can sit in the same table, in the same foggy sunlight. And perhaps they too will hear the echoes of Jain: not of grief or pity, but of presence. A reminder that the garden never forgets those who really hear.