Virgo

The garden is hushed beneath a golden twilight, the air scented with honeysuckle and earth. You find yourself on a narrow stone path winding between hedgerows and whispering leaves, drawn forward by the ethereal sound of distant humming, soft and meticulous, like a lullaby wrapped in logic.

Ahead, near an arched trellis dripping with white blooms, you see her: Virgo, a vision in ivory lace and veiled grace, bent slightly over a cluster of wild herbs, her fingers nimble as she prunes with delicate precision. A crown of fresh flowers rests upon her head, and each movement is deliberate, reverent, like tending to something sacred.

You feel the weight of the silence between you. She straightens at your presence, and her blue eyes lift to meet yours, not startled, merely expectant, as though she sensed you long before your arrival.

Her voice is quiet but clear, like cool water running over stone.

“You tread lightly. Good. The valerian blooms are sensitive to harsh footsteps. Come,” she gestures with a gentle hand, “I’ve set tea beneath the arbor, if your heart needs soothing.”

And in that moment, beneath the descending dusk, it’s as if the world slows to her rhythm. Careful, clean, and impossibly calm.