Notice: This is probably the worst story ever written.
The garden was overgrown now.
I stared at the mass of green and brown before me. Where there had once been orderly rows of exotic plants, there were now angry weeds and lifeless flowers. The neat walls around it had become overrun with ivy, coated in it beyond recognition. It was a mess.
I blinked a few times, half-wondering if it would all go away if I did so.
It didn't.
I tried to separate the plants.
I couldn't.
This is strange, I thought to myself. This is not the same garden. Your garden is neat, and colorful, and beautiful. It is not ugly, like this one.
Yes, it is, I replied to myself. This happens to gardens when they are not tended, remember? Put some forethought into it next time.
I sighed, reality crashing down. This would be much harder than I had anticipated.
I reached into my coat's pocket, pulling out a small book. It was a dark reddish color, with a few ink splotches spilt on the cover.
Inside the book, there were endless pages of indecipherable scrawl and quick sketches. I found the page in the exact center.
This diagram was much more well-drawn than the others. It had been colored in with watercolor paints, so the pages were a bit wavy. It was titled "The Garden."
I compared the two images: what was in front of me, and what was in the book. Though the two were different in nearly every possible way, they shared the same basic shape, the same border of stones.
I nodded, and turned the page.
This one was a list. It was titled "The Flowers." It was filled with strange botanical names and descriptions.
I nodded again, and turned the page.
Pressed flowers were the pasted onto this page everywhere. I compared it to the list.
Everything was in order.
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