The garden was in full bloom.
The kind that didn’t shout with color,
but whispered in greens and pale pinks,
in the sway of long grasses,
in the way the sunlight rested softly on the petals.
She sat quietly,
legs crossed,
a small book resting closed on her lap.
In her right hand,
an old-style Japanese fan—an uchiwa.
Round, simple, patterned with blue waves.
She didn’t use it constantly.
Just now and then.
One slow motion,
a single breath of air,
like brushing away a thought.
She wasn’t Japanese.
But the fan had called to her at a market once—
gentle, different,
Curious in its stillness.
There was no handle to click open,
no breeze strong enough to cool a room.
But in her hand, it made the world quieter.
More deliberate.
More… present.
She sipped her drink—cold sake in a wine glass—
and watched the leaves move.
There was no rush.
No messages waiting.
No one needed anything from her in that moment.
Only the hush of summer,
the hush between sips,
the hush of a garden listening to itself.
Sometimes, elegance is quiet.
Sometimes, beauty arrives with a breeze.
And sometimes,
A fan in your hand is all the permission you need
to do nothing at all.
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