In the quiet archives of a dream, a garden is remembered not in soil, but on paper. Rivers of brown, orange, and beige ink swirl across a textured expanse, their currents frozen in time to form the ghosts of foliage and flora. Stylized flowers bloom from pools of black, their petals like serrated script, while abstract vines trace paths through the marbled chaos. This is no living conservatory, but a fossilized impression, a garden that bloomed and withered in a single, fluid moment, its entire existence captured in the warm, earthen stains of a forgotten page.
