In the greatest garden of all, They wait.
From above—where the whole may be seen and nothing is hidden—They watch over every living thing: each stem bending toward light, each root threading through unseen soil. No flower is too small. No weed grows unnoticed. All watched with hollow eyes.
They tend without haste.
With steady hands, They trim what has withered. They brace the weak against the wind. They pluck what has fully faded, not in cruelty, but in care. And where the earth lies bare, They press new seeds into the dark, trusting time to do what force never could.
With Their scythe, They carve narrow trenches through overgrowth, clearing space where life has forgotten how to breathe. Not destruction—maintenance. Not ending—preparation.
With Their pale touch, They become both Fate and Destiny.
For only They may see the garden as it truly is—not as a single bloom straining toward the sun, but as a living whole, shaped by seasons we cannot perceive from below.
We look up from the soil.
They look down with understanding.
Death is not fear.
Death is a patient gardener.
And we—each of us—are Their work.
Seeds planted in love.
Tended through storm and drought.
Allowed to grow wild, crooked, brilliant.
Until the day we wilt.
Until the day They come for us—not as a monster, not as a judge, but as the one who has always been watching.
And when we meet Death,
it is not the end of the garden.
It is simply our return to it.