in the silent whispers that swirl through the moonlit hallways, there exists a tale, as imperceptible as the gentle sigh of the night, speaking of beings who do not obey the earthly bindings. it tells of a time pre-starting the dawn of the human era, when spirits decided to take up from scratch an ethereal garden. with ghostly shovels, they toiled, their presence as light as air, reaching a conclusion that even in the realm of shadows, creation blooms, a testament to the unseen hope that guides lost souls home.