INTRO

They started as fragments.

A phrase scratched into a napkin. A sentence plucked from a dream. A thought so strange it had to be true.

They grew slowly—unnoticed at first. Tangled among the memories. Rooted in the quiet places. Watered with attention you didn’t mean to give.

These are not just stories.

They are questions wearing flowers.

They are confessions disguised as metaphors.

They are things you buried that insisted on blooming anyway.

Some are tender. Some are sharp. All of them are watching.

You may not remember planting them. But they’ve been waiting for you.