The garden was still, perfect in its breath—
rivers curling through green,
fruit heavy with light,
every leaf whispering peace.
Yet in that stillness,
something stirred beneath their ribs—
a longing without a name,
a hunger that even heaven could not quiet.
The wind called from beyond the gate,
soft, uncertain, full of distance.
And so they rose,
not in defiance, but in wonder.
Bare feet pressed into the edge of paradise,
and they stepped out beneath a wider sky.
The world beyond was rough,
the light sharper, the nights longer.
But in their wandering, they found something new—
not perfection,
but the ache that makes love possible,
and the endless search that gives meaning to home.
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