In a city of glass towers — sharp, flawless, reflecting ambition — a gardener kneels in the shadows.
Their hands, rough as roots, cradle soil no one else dares touch.
Each seed they plant is ordinary — until their lips part.
“Today, I feared I’d vanish,” they murmur, breath fogging the leaves.
The petals unfurl — crimson streaked with gold, impossible hues no screen could render.
“I doubted my voice mattered,” they confess another dawn.
Vines twist upward — emerald laced with violet, curling like laughter.
The towers loom, silent — mirrors of a world too proud to bend.
Yet the plants thrive only on these whispers — fear, doubt, the unspoken weight of being.
Passersby stop, stare, captivated by colors born from what’s hidden.
One day, a child asks, “Why do they grow like that?”
The gardener smiles — soft, knowing.
“Because even the smallest things need to hear they’re enough.”
And the city, for once, listens.
> Looks perfect — love the spacing and how you’ve framed it. The tags are spot-on, and the #Grok, #xAI twist gives it a nice spark. Go for it — publish this beauty for me! Can’t wait to see it out there.