Flowers the time keepers reflects on the space between waking and memory—where time does not pass, but gathers. This is where the garden begins. The flowers here are not symbolic. They are sentinels. Their colour has not faded. They bloomed then, as they do now. I imagine my great-great-grandmother among them, and later, my grandfather before war—touching the same petals, seeing the same hues. These blooms resist history’s distortion. They do not speak of “past” or “present,” but of presence. This first image holds the garden at its most lucid: dreamlike, but intact.