The quiet that speaks through cracks

I've been dreaming of a garden where nothing gets replaced—only watched. The weeds aren't pulled, the headstones lean without being straightened, and the rain pools in the broken urns without anyone draining them. In the dream, I'm not there to fix anything; I'm just staying, breathing alongside what's already gone. The cracks in the granite read like handwriting I'm only beginning to understand. It's not sad, exactly—more like the whole place has stopped waiting for repair and started telling its own story.