Where the Garden Dreams— Lyrical fiction series

There are places where the world grows thin—where sound, scent, and shadow blur into something almost remembered. In one such place, by the edge of a quiet garden and a patient lake, a being tends the threshold between dreams and waking. Where the Garden Dreams is a glimpse into that fragile in-between, where beauty breathes, time bends, and belief is all that keeps the unseen alive.

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In the hush between the rustle of leaves and the hum of dusk, it stirs—

a being not of our world, yet born of its dreaming.

They call it The Veilkeeper, though no tongue here ever spoke its name aloud.

Its skin gleams like moonlight trapped in dew, its eyes are mirrors of forgotten skies.

It moves where the air bends, between petals and shadows, where roots whisper in languages older than sound.

It exists near the water—where the garden sighs into the lake’s edge,

and reflections hold secrets the day cannot bear.

Some say the water was a gift given to her,

a mirror offered by the earth itself,

so she might remember what she once was,

and what she must forever guard.

Every night it tends to the unseen—

stitching broken songs back into the wings of moths,

lighting the sighs of sleeping flowers,

and gathering lost thoughts that fall like seeds from passing minds.

The nights she wanders, she lingers by the shore,

tracing ripples that whisper old names and half-forgotten stories.

The water listens. The wind remembers.

And in their quiet communion, the veil holds.

In this garden, time is merely a rumor,

and The Veilkeeper walks—

half memory, half breath—

waiting for someone to look long enough

to believe it into being.

Those who’ve glimpsed her never quite agree on what they saw.

Some say she wears a crown of wilted blossoms that never decay;

others swear she has no face at all, only a shifting shimmer,

as though the garden itself had chosen to take shape for a fleeting moment.

When she passes, the air cools.

Petals tremble. Shadows bend toward her like worshippers.

She does not speak, yet the earth seems to listen.

Her purpose is not to guard, but to tend the threshold—

the fragile seam between what is and what was meant to be.

Here, in this secret place, she keeps the balance between bloom and decay,

between silence and song,

between dream and waking.

And if you linger long enough,

in that breathless space before the night exhales,

you might sense her—

a flicker at the edge of sight,

a quiet invitation to remember

that every garden dreams,

and some dreams remember you back.

©️Lyia Meta

Image by WiX