Transcript
Beneath the garden’s roots, springs flow unseen. A draught of strength, a sip of wisdom, a swallow of eternity. But each fountain is fickle — what it gives with one hand, it steals with the other. The strong may find their bodies whole, but their hearts hollow. The wise may see beyond the veil, but forget the faces they love. The eternal may endure — but only as strangers to time. So the fountains murmur, half blessing, half curse.