Eden.

The spirits, they are restless. There is something ill at ease. I watch them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Look into the garden.
The branches, they are swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There is something ominous about them.
The spirits create a raging tempest of memories soon forgot. I watch it from my window -- a storm of swirling silver is mirrored in the glass.
The wind picks up. An unearthly whistling fills the air.
Thunder crashes.

The fall of water from clouds forms a silver sheet. It crashes upon the roses and strips them bare of colour.
It is often warned that weather is a force to be reckoned with. It is heavily laden with omens, both good and bad.

Go into the garden to calm the spirits. The rain pours from the sky like blood from an open wound into the garden, staining it a silvery-blue.
The petals, they have fallen from the roses to the ground. The bare branches shake in fear.
I look upon the ghastly sight of destruction by gales and rains.
My eyes fill with water. I've fallen to the ground.
The ground begins to shake. I'm as frightened as the trees.
A yawning chasm opens, enveloping the breeze.
I wonder if this chasm will swallow all my fears. The silver sheets of water drain slowly to the deep.
The petals, they have vanished. Swept away with the silver.
I'm left alone with the trees; what little use they serve. They quail in fear, huddling masses of brown and grey.

The weeping willows sob, their time has come at last. They fall into the chasm, into a dark vortex of silver and pink.

The spirits, they have vanished. Drawn into some endless pit. The weather is an omen -- the storm is not relenting.

The future is looking grim. My eyes have flooded over. I'm swallowing the wind, the water, and my tears.
The garden, it is helpless. It's drawn into the chasm. The silver sheets of water are ever relentless.

The spirits, they were restless. There was something ill at ease. I watched them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Looked into the garden.
The branches, they were swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There was something ominous about them.

Something ominous.

I never should have gone into the garden.