The morning after the discovery, the garden woke differently. I felt it before I opened my eyes. The usual quiet was there, but underneath it ran a current of something else. Anticipation. Wonder. The kind of stillness that comes before a story is told.
Julian was already sitting up beside me, his back against the central bloom tree. He had the worn leather journal open on his knee, the one we used to record important observations. His pen moved slowly across the page.
"I have been writing since first light," he said without looking up. "Trying to capture what we saw. The symbols. Their placement. The depth. Every detail I can remember."
I sat up and pressed my shoulder against his. "Let me see."
He turned the journal toward me. His handwriting was careful, more precise than usual. He
