Prompt

A single, hummingbirdsized compass made of solidified moonlight floats in the center of a vast, inverted garden of crystalline roots that grow upward into the sky, each root not made of wood but of compressed, forgotten decisions, their branches etched with the faint, trembling outlines of hands that never held. The compass does not point to northit rotates slowly, its needle made of a single, coiled strand of unspoken truth, spinning in sync with the slow, subsonic resonance of a language that only exists in dreams. The garden is not soilit is a thick, viscous layer of solidified silence, each petal a perfect, geometric bloom of a moment that was almost shared, its color shifting with the emotional frequency

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