Fracture..the battlefield turns to noise. Petals twist. Familiar blooms return, but altered—darker, harder to find. War has arrived. My grandfather walks inside this memory. Time is no longer steady. It breaks apart, repeats, overlays itself. And yet the flowers persist. Not as decoration, but as presence. The garden doesn’t disappear—it distorts. You can feel it trying to hold shape. A stem here. A glint of colour there. Like memory reassembling itself from pieces. What is carried through is not the story, but the image: a single flower, remembered.