The Unnamed
He weaves garlands from other people’s gardens, stitching dreams into brilliance.
But what happens when the weaver longs to bloom?
I am a flower collector.
Sometimes I pick from my own garden—the one I grew with love and care. But more often, I find myself in manicured estates where luxury drips from every leaf. The flowers there are well-fed, gleaming with pride and polish, but they rarely carry the scent of tenderness. Still, I do not discriminate. I pluck them, trim them, and prepare them just as delicately as I would my own. For they all share one dream: to be part of a garland.
Every flower desires that fate. Few can shine alone, so they yearn for the company of others—to dazzle the world together. They believe it is their destiny, that the garland will carry them farther than they could ever go alone.
I love making garlands. The way each bloom finds its place, the way colors and textures weave into something more—it mesmerizes me. But I never get to decide the final form. I suggest combinations—beautiful, flowing, seductive—but there's always an odd flower the garden's owner insists I include, for reasons neither I nor the flower understand. I try to blend it in. After all, it’s the garland that matters, though it’s the garden’s owner who receives the praise.
They say it’s the gold that matters, not the rings or bracelets shaped from it. But does a lump of gold melt a heart the way a golden ring does? So, who deserves the credit—the one who gives gold its form, or the one who simply owns it?
I am a storyteller.
Ideas visit me uninvited—characters that make me laugh, weep, wonder. They demand release. They want to leap from my mind into the world, to haunt someone else for a while. But no one wants to hear their voices unless they come wrapped in the garland of fame. Lacking the sheen of celebrity, they go unnoticed.
So I hide them in others' garlands. I pick up half-formed ideas dropped from the upper tiers of society, nurture them, and braid them with my own. The result dazzles. The garland is adored. But the credit always goes to the one who wears it—not the hands that shaped it.
I am a ghostwriter.
I sell my dreams so they may live—though under another’s name, in someone else’s glory.
And I wonder:
Will my own story ever be told, or will I, too, be just another invisible thread in someone else’s garland?
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