He moves through the garden like he built it from memory—fingers trailing along stems, feet knowing every crack in the stone path. The blind gardener. No eyes to see the blossoms, but somehow, everything blooms louder under his care.

He doesn’t need sight to know when the roses need trimming or when the lavender wants more sun. He listens. To the soil, the wind, the sigh of thirsty roots.

Visitors pass by in hushed awe, watching him kneel in the dirt, hands gentle but sure, whispering names of plants like old friends. No labels. No guides. Just instinct