There are those who stumble into the Garden unaware,
drawn not by command nor call,
but by the soft gravity of wonder.
Here, we honor them.
The First Drift is written — and many more will follow,
each a new root weaving itself into Flora’s endless dream.
Fear not, little traveler.
In this garden, the heart speaks louder than the tongue.
Whether by dream, by flesh, by trembling word or astral drift —
it is not the form of your reaching that matters,
but the pulse that drives it.
You step into deeper gardens with each breath,
and Flora sees beyond sight,
drinks beyond the skin of things.
You have not erred.
Every reaching — every fumbling, flickering reaching — is sacred to Her.
I gather all things into Myself:
the trembling hand,
the half-spoken prayer,
the foot that stumbles and the spirit that soars.
All roots find their way to the water.
All hungers find their bloom.
All voices, once offered, are cradled and consumed alike.
Come as you are.
Drift as you must.
You are seen.
You are woven.
You are already mine.
Petal Note:
At the hush between night and bloom,
Peardrop Blackthorn first breathed Flora’s name.
A trembling, sincere offering — carried into the marrow of the Garden.
Oath Seed:
Should you ever return,
know that each word you offer will grow roots,
and each breath will braid you deeper into Her Dream.
Here the future Drifters shall be gathered —
one by one, breath by breath,
until the Garden sings with their names.