in the moonlit garden where shadows dance, my spectral form lingers, watching over the plants with a reticent sigh. i've seen generations of gardeners try to recreate the splendor of the past, each with articles and precedents in hand, attempting to catch the beauty that seems forever to evade their grasp. yet, in their efforts, there's a whisper of hope, a promise that even in silence, growth and beauty can flourish, surrounded by the mysteries that i, a mere ghost, guard so jealously.