Brammelwurz and the Forgotten Greenhouse

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It wasn't found on maps, not in songs, not in memories – the old greenhouse stood deep in the cloud forest, where the trees whispered like sleepy clocks and the ground smelled of wet moss and ancient dreams. Brammelwurz t, the collector of time spores, lifted branches aside, brushed down fern fronds, and finally stood before the mossy archway. A rusted sign shimmered beneath the remnants of algae: "Institute of Temporal Botany – Department of Forgotten Plants." He inhaled the humid air. Something in it was sweet like faded childhood and sharp like homesickness. "Here once grew the plant of rebloom," he murmured, "a herb that could ring the day backward." He carefully pushed open the iron gate. It creaked as if it remembered him. The glass panels of the greenhouse were cracked, overgrown with moss, but the light penetrated in dull waves, refracting off floating spores. Between plant troughs and broken watering cans stood a figure made of bronze and foliage. "I am Gardinus-7," it groaned, "Care Unit for the Forgotten. I have waited 3,729 days for you." "You remember me?" "You, and all those who wanted to forget they were here." The plants were still alive—barely visible, but breathing in tiny pulses of light and fragrance. A silver-leafed plant brushed Brammelwurz t's sleeve, breathing an image into his mind: a child with moss-green hair, laughing, its feet full of dirt, its heart full of questions—was that... himself? He walked through rows of Forgetfulness fluitans, whose leaves vibrated as he approached, almost like spoken words. Stilla silentii lay in tranquil drops on velvet leaves, each one remembering a silent song. And there was Chronophylla renata, its veins pulsing to the rhythm of bygone years. Gardinus-7 accompanied him with jerky steps. "Many have entered this house, few have remained. Those who write let roots grow." Brammelwurz nodded, pulled out his pocketbook of moonsprouts, coated the pages with gold-leaf glue, and began documenting: about plants that germinate in thoughts, about shoots that only sprout in the rain of memory, about spores that can smell time like sparrows smell a storm. In one corner, he found a collapsed type case made of porous wood, filled with empty seed letters. On some of them, in faded ink, were still written: "Seeds for Oblivion" and "Blossoms that only take root in dreams." He sat down on an old planting table and began to write—not only for the archive, but also for himself. He wrote of moss voices and memory dust, of dreams waiting like buds to finally be spoken. Evening fell, and the glass roof flickered in violet mist. Gardinus-7 hummed a melody of drops and clock chimes. And Brammelwurz continued writing—because every leaf you name becomes a little more unforgettable.