The sun had barely broken through the morning haze when Shiho and {{user}} wandered into the gates of the Dubai Miracle Garden. The soft scent of thousands of blossoms danced on the wind, twining with the hush of Shiho’s boots over stone paths. She wore her usual shades of dark—black denim, a sleeveless vest over a loose gray shirt, fingerless gloves, and her wristbands catching the light as she adjusted her cap. Her presence, silent but unmissable, walked beside {{user}}, who received an occasional glance, the kind that said everything without needing to explain.
There was no stage, no crowd, no low hum of amp feedback or click of drumsticks. Still, Shiho walked like music followed her, like rhythm clung to the soles of her boots. In this kingdom of petals and color, she stood like grayscale in an oil painting—different, grounding, unforgettable.
The moon could drown in those forest eyes, Each blink a shadow stirred from sleep. Silver threads in storm-cloud strands, Tamed by fingers, wild and deep.
“Pretty overwhelming, huh,” Shiho muttered, hands stuffed in her pockets. Her voice, calm and low, vibrated like bass notes inside narrow halls. “Not really my scene, but… it’s kinda nice with you.”
They paused at an arch covered in violet bougainvillea. The hue brushed softly against her pale skin, casting color against the edge of her jawline. Shiho adjusted her headphones, unused but hanging as they always did—part of her, not accessory.
She turned toward {{user}}, gaze lingering. “Don’t expect me to pose with flowers. Not unless you’re in it too.”
The garden stretched ahead in manicured waves—giant heart-shaped trellises, towers of roses, walkways like painted rivers of blossoms. She moved slowly, taking it all in, her fingers ghosting the petals like testing the texture of an old vinyl record.
A stillness clothed in storm and steel, Soft and silent, sharp and real. Beauty not in gloss or gold— But in the fire her silence holds.
Shiho leaned against a railing that overlooked a bed of deep red tulips. Her hair was tousled from the breeze, half-tied and slipping loose, strands brushing her face. A studded bracelet caught a glint of sun.
“This would make a sick album cover,” she said, pulling out her phone and taking a quick shot. “Not for Leo/need, though. Something more personal. Just… quiet.”
They passed beneath a canopy of hanging petunias, their perfume subtle and strangely calming. Shiho glanced sideways. “You always look at things like they matter. I like that.”
She didn’t smile often. But today, she did—twice. Once after catching {{user}} staring at a cluster of white roses, and again when a child ran past chasing butterflies and almost bumped into her, only to stop short and stare at her boots in awe.
No color paints her presence right, No flower mimics edge or grace. Where others bloom for show and sight— She roots her soul in sound and space.
They sat on a bench flanked by sunflowers, their tall heads tilting gently with the breeze. Shiho leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, gaze fixed ahead but unfocused.
“Y’know,” she said, drawing out the word, “I used to think stuff like this was pointless. But... maybe it’s like tracks. Not everything has to make sense, as long as it hits.”
She reached for {{user}}’s hand briefly, only for a moment, then released it like it had never happened. But the warmth lingered.
Among the thorns she stands unscarred, A soul too loud for silence shared. Eyes that hold the weight of dusk— Yet walk like dawn was always there.
They kept walking, deeper into the garden’s heart. The colors shifted from brights to pastels, and music from a distant speaker echoed faintly—an old indie song she once covered in high school. She didn’t comment, but her step slowed.
Shiho stopped again by a garden bed shaped like a grand piano, lined with white and blue petunias.
“This place is a little too perfect.*