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Sometimes I think about my dreams — the ones that never came true.

I keep them like my indoor plants, each in its own little pot. Some are lush and vivid, stretching toward the light, reminding me to care. I check their soil, turn their leaves gently toward the sun, whisper small hopes into their green silence.

Others sit quietly in their corners. I water them too, but with a sigh. They carry the scent of bittersweet memories — dreams I once loved more than anything, now fading like shadows on old walls. I still tend to them, not out of joy, but out of respect for who I once was.

There’s one — a lemon tree. I planted it nearly a decade ago. It’s tough. Resilient. I’ve left it out too long in the frost, more than once. Each time I thought I had lost it, it returned — bare, then blooming again. Stronger. Like some part of me I had given up on.

One dream smells like rose water. One echoes with the clang of a coppersmith’s hammer.

Another waits in the shade of an old garden wall, where the soil still remembers how to grow sweet grapes and fragrant herbs.

These dreams don’t ask for much — just that one day I might walk barefoot again across familiar dust, taste sunlight in melon slices, and find the past not vanished but gently breathing.

I carry no joy, no sorrow — only the hush that follows hope.

A knowing that even unfulfilled dreams have roots. And maybe that’s enough.