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She spent days clearing the brambles, coaxing the soil to breathe. With each seed she planted—azaleas, camellias, and wild orchids—she sowed a piece of herself into the earth. The garden grew slowly, mirroring the rhythm of the tides: patient, persistent, and inevitable. In the evenings, she would sit beneath the newly bloomed cherry trees, her thoughts drifting like lanterns on the water, and write verses on scraps of rice paper that fluttered in the wind.

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