✨ Past the last garden gate, a summer meadow fills quietly with small drifting lights. 🌾
You slip through an old gate that no longer latches, and the mown grass gives way to something wilder — seed heads at your knees, the day's warmth still held in the path beneath your feet. The fireflies are already up, rising and winking out over the grass with no pattern to follow and nothing asked of you. You walk as far as a leaning fence and an orchard of unripe apples, crouch beside a stone trough where the water says the same soft thing over and over, then lower yourself down into the grass and stay. The crickets keep their steady pulse. The moon clears the treeline. And somewhere between the last of summer's heat and the first cool hour of true night, the meadow simply holds you.
Includes mentions of: fireflies ✨ · tall summer grass 🌾 · crickets 🦗 · a rabbit in the clover 🐇 · an old apple orchard 🍏 · a stone water trough 💧 · moonrise over the treeline 🌙 · stars through the grass ⭐
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