It was a dream of the green hour, a moment caught behind a film of dust and memory. I stood before the window, not as myself, but as a silent observer to a forgotten garden. Great sunflowers, their faces turned away or bowed in reverence, stood as dark sentinels against the world. They were not plants, but shadows burned into the glass, and on one, a butterfly had paused its journey, its wings a perfect, still silhouette. Beyond this pane of forgotten time, the world had dissolved into an out-of-focus wash of impossible lime green, a vibrant, humming emptiness. It was a silent vigil, the dark flora and fauna keeping watch over a summer that was no longer real, a serenade played in the key of shadow.
