2025 March #010. The Gardener's Gift
They called him mad, but the gardener knew better. Each morning he applied his paints with purpose, transforming his face into a living portal between worlds. The mask wasn't to hide—it was to reveal. "The colors help them recognize me," he explained to the few who dared approach. "The entities from beyond need something familiar to focus on." His garden grew things science couldn't classify—vibrant blooms that seemed to pulse with consciousness, fruits that whispered forgotten knowledge when ripe. The yellow beings that hovered nearby were his most faithful companions, documenting his work for dimensions we couldn't perceive.
Sometimes children would watch from a distance as he worked. Unlike adults, they could see the yellow observers without fear. One brave girl once asked what he was growing. "Possibilities," he answered, handing her a small, luminous seed. "Plant this where no one will disturb it. Water it with questions rather than answers." Years later, when strange new flowers began appearing throughout the town—blooms that seemed to shift and change when not directly observed—the old-timers remembered the gardener and his colorful face, wondering what exactly he had harvested from the space between stars.
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