A Letter from the Last Garden
Dear traveler,
Once, the whole world was green. I remember rivers, and rain that came when it was asked, and gardens that went on past the edge of seeing.
Now the Dry has taken almost all of it. The rivers are dust. The gardens are bones. But in this little pouch I carry the last seeds, the very last seeds of the green world.
So I walk. My name is Remi, and I am crossing the desert to find the old oases and plant them, one by one, until the green comes creeping back. I catch the falling water to keep going. I plant where I can. I do not stop.
If you find these pages, then perhaps you will carry the seeds a little farther too.
Yours across the sand,
Remi
