In the summer of 2025, I had a dream.
The first time we met in the garden, my white shirt was stained with tiny spots of light, and my outstretched hand brushed the back of my hand, bringing with it the warmth of ink and sunlight. The words you want to say are stuck in your throat.
Should I wake up?
When I woke up, the fan was still running and I was holding a piece of dried flower petals in my hand...
