The garden of sighs was a lush secret alcove where, for each sigh, a blossom bloomed in all its exquisite beauty.
It was a realm of lost dreams and decayed love, with the sweetest scent of death and darkness swallowing every colour.
The only light that could penetrate such an abyss of nightmares was the faded glimmer of stardust.
Fears and teardrops adorned the withering petals magnificently; each droplet was a crystallised fragment of sorrow glistening like fallen stars caught in a web of despair. Glooms and touches of melancholy weaved themselves like visions through the tangled vines, curling around each bud as if to protect the enigmas buried in the bleeding soil nourished by the vestiges of forsaken love.
All the flowers were soaked with desire and lust; their delicate and fragile fragrant petals were trembling under the weight of an ethereal woe. Each blossom seemed to sigh as though haunted, exhaling moans of lost love and regrets into the murky atmosphere. They clung to the bleeding soil, rooted in sorrow and cherished by the very tears that had moistened them.
The garden of sighs became a lush realm of lust and decay, where the ephemeral sound of sobs of torment entangled with howls of anguish. The carved and darkened trees were hollow havens for eerie wraiths, keeping the arcane secrets of this metaphysical niche, which no wanderer could ever have visited.
For eternity, this mysterious alcove remained untouched, a forbidden sanctuary beyond the reach of mortal gazes and meddling hearts. And so, the garden of sighs existed—eternal, unseen, a realm untouched by starlight. It lay concealed within the shroud of night, where beauty mingled with the decay of despair.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
