When I was little, I loved a coloring book called The Secret Garden. I would spend hours filling in the pages—tracing the veins of leaves, the tiny creatures hidden in branches, the intricate textures of plants and flowers. The drawings felt magical, as if an entire world existed quietly inside the garden, waiting to be discovered. I remember staring at those pages for so long that I began to imagine what it would feel like to step inside them.

Years later, walking through the woods with a camera, I noticed a hollow opening in the trunk of a tree. Through that narrow gap I could see another patch of green on the other side. For a moment, it felt strangely familiar, as if I had finally come across the garden my childhood self had been dreaming about.