In a quiet town surrounded by misty hills, there lies a garden no one remembers planting. Wildflowers bloom without order, vines curl around crumbling statues, and a soft fragrance fills the air. The locals call it The Garden of Forgotten Dreams. They say that every dream left unfinished, every wish whispered but never pursued, finds its way here.
The petals seem to shimmer with memory — the dreams of children who once wanted to fly, of artists who never painted again, of lovers who parted at the station. Each morning, the dew reflects faint shapes, like fragments of lost hopes. Yet, despite its melancholy, the garden is breathtakingly beautiful.
Visitors say the garden feels alive, as if it’s waiting for someone to remember. Some claim that when they walk among the flowers, forgotten desires resurface — the wish to sing, to travel, to love without fear. The air hums with possibility.
Perhaps the garden reminds us that no dream is truly lost. Even when we abandon them, they bloom quietly in unseen corners of the world, waiting for courage to return. Maybe, in some way, we are all gardeners of forgotten dreams.
