Urban Legend -

He was kneeling over a crack in the foundation of the Spire. From the crack, a black, thorny vine was growing—fast, like a time-lapse video. The Gardener reached out with his free hand and felt the vine. He tilted his wooden head, as if listening to it scream.

The urban legend said that the Gardener wasn't a person. He was a reaction. The city, choked by steel and forgetting its own soil, had begun to breathe. And the Veridian Spire had pierced a lung. Now, every night at 3 AM, the Gardener came to tend to the wound. He didn't plant flowers. He pruned the city’s mistakes.

It began, as these things often do, with a grainy photo on a forgotten forum. The caption read: “The Gardener. Downtown. 3 AM. Don’t make a sound.” Urban Legend

Then he snipped.

There was no recording. Just a faint, organic pattern of gray dust on the brown tape—like the rings of a tree stump. He was kneeling over a crack in the foundation of the Spire

Leo raised the cassette recorder. The red light blinked. Snip. Snip.

The silence was absolute.

Then they saw him.