2025.06.28
In a forgotten field where time turns slowly, no one is missing in the gardens.
He is a memory gardener, a calm watchman who once lived in a summer. Chairs, though empty, remember the laughter. Cups, pink and twins, are still hot with stories that are still wise at the morning tea. The gene does not need to be seen – its presence stands in the air, in the blurredness between waking and remembering.
Every morning, Jain passes through the curtains of memory and memory, collecting pieces of blurred aroma and conversation. The flowers she cultivates is grown from memories – because of the petals in the form of emotions, the leaves stay for long. A forgotten birthday. First kiss under the rain. The day someone stopped waiting. She does not cox slowly from the soil, not to protect it but to breathe.
She puts them in a vase of silence, not to display but to invite the return. She knows that memories, such as gardens, do not need to be faster to be real. The blurred edges are relaxed. Protects ambiguity that cannot tolerate the truth.
Visitors often do not realize that they have met the gene. They roam the field for a breath, relaxation, a breeze of Daja Woo. Some cry. Other smiles. They leave everything with something they did not know they would be lost.
The gene remains, the unseen harvest, irreversible, almost giving water to the seeds of happiness. She just talks to the air, which helps to take these gardening echo back into the world – in dreams, suddenly in silence, at that moment you stop, realizing that you are here before.
And so, she once again eliminates the gentleness of the memory, where her hands continue her quiet trend.