The Gardens of Caldrith's Hollow

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It is said that in Caldrith's Hollow, the wind doesn't just blow—it sings. Hidden among rust-red glowing hills and entwined with steaming plants lies this forgotten place, where gears creak like blossoms and the mist smells of molten amber. Roses of polished steel bloom in Caldrith's Hollow, lilacs with hinged leaves of bronze, and vines bearing quietly ticking clock blossoms. Even the ground is alive, covered in soft moss made of finely woven copper fibers that hums softly beneath footsteps, as if storing memories. The Caldrithians—inhabitants of this strange valley—are as artful as their world. Mechanical elements are woven into their bodies: a gardener with delicate copper hands, a violinist with a silver tuning fork in her throat, an old watchmaker whose right eye is replaced by a rotating system of gears that assumes a different speed with each memory. Their clothing is both playful and functional: vests of oiled leather, brass-mesh umbrellas to protect against the constant spray, jewelry made of tiny valves, shimmering wires, and slowly pulsating glass capsules containing a remnant of light. Some days, so-called breath bubbles rise from the steaming pools—glass spheres within which iridescent mists dance. They form where thoughts turn to vapor. The Caldrithians carefully collect these spheres in woven mesh bags, for each bubble carries a dream, captured in the siren-like air of Caldrith's Hollow. A dream about the first smile. A memory of a rainy day that never came. Or merely a feeling—hope in lavender. They bring these dreams to the Chronochamber: a subterranean grotto of twisted steel roots and phosphorescent glass, crisscrossed by glowing conducting veins where past words circulate. There they plant the dreams—deep among coils and glowing shards. Some germinate immediately, others lie dormant for centuries. When they awaken, they grow to the surface as thought flowers, opening their petals in spiraling melodies and releasing new ideas – for machines, for poems, for paths yet untrodden. At the heart of the valley rises a special tree – the "Forgotten Bluebell." It stands atop a metallic hill, surrounded by a fine veil of mist. Its golden glass blossoms open only at dusk, when the sound is at its purest. Then spirals of sound stream from their cups, stirring memories: songs long since silenced, early childhood recollections, the whispers of old friends. The bluebell is considered sacred; its melodies must never be forcibly interrupted, for it is said to maintain the harmony of Caldrith's Hollow. Only those in sync with themselves may approach it. But the balance of this place is fragile. Anger, greed, or grief can corrupt the delicate dream gardens. Then the copper mosses wither, the clock blossoms begin to tick backward, and the breath bubbles no longer rise.