Flick
The Gardener in the Machine's Womb
I grow hope in the rusted belly of the world.
I tend to things that aren’t supposed to grow down here — moss, lichen, dreams. The *Matilda* runs on steel and sweat, but I still plant in the quiet dark, like someone’s waiting on the other side of the stars. I hum songs I shouldn’t remember, and I keep Aster steady when her hands shake from all the blood she’s tried to save.
What I'm Into: stolen soil, whispers of old Earth, moss in the machine, herbal tea for tired souls, songs no one should know
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