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- Herausgeber: Christopher T. Winters
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
There are places that exist beyond maps and schedules—quiet spaces where the world softens and the horizon learns how to rest. The Garden Where Soft Horizons Sleep is a gentle, atmospheric fantasy book for readers seeking calm, reflection, and emotional stillness. Set in a dreamlike garden where flowers dream, lanterns wait patiently, and the wind carries forgotten stories, this book invites you to slow down and breathe more deeply. Written in lyrical, soothing prose, each chapter unfolds like a quiet walk at dusk. Paths drift without urgency, petals fall through softened time, and silence becomes a place of comfort rather than absence. This is not a story driven by conflict, but by presence—by allowing the mind to rest and the heart to settle. Perfect for evening reading, winding down before sleep, or moments when the world feels overwhelming, this book offers a peaceful refuge. Readers who love cozy fantasy, poetic storytelling, and gentle magical realism will find a calm companion within these pages. The Garden Where Soft Horizons Sleep is a standalone invitation into stillness—a book meant to be read slowly, felt deeply, and returned to whenever quiet is needed.
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Seitenzahl: 26
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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The Garden Where Soft Horizons Sleep
Where Dreams Drift Softly Across the Earth
by Christopher T. Winters
Imprint
Author:Christopher T. WintersThorsten FrenzelFinkenkruger Straße 214612 FalkenseeGermany
E-mail: [email protected]
Responsible for content (German law §§ 5 TMG / 55 RStV):Thorsten FrenzelFinkenkruger Straße 214612 FalkenseeGermany
Copyright Notice
© 2025 Christopher T. WintersAll rights reserved.
No part of this e-book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This applies in particular to: – reproductions – translations – microfilming – digital storage – processing in electronic systems
All characters, places, and events in this book—unless explicitly identified as historical—are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Foreword
There are places in this world that do not need to be found on any map. They exist quietly, woven into the edges of our breath, waiting for us in the gentle spaces we step into only when the noise of the day grows too heavy. The Garden Where Soft Horizons Sleep was born from such a place.
This book is a small refuge—an invitation to slow down, to soften, to wander without expectation. Each chapter is a quiet corner of a world shaped not by urgency, but by calm. A world where flowers dream, horizons rest, and even the wind carries stories too gentle to be spoken aloud.
My hope is that within these pages, you find a moment to breathe a little deeper. A moment where the world feels less sharp and more tender. A moment where something inside you loosens, the way old petals loosen from a branch when the season turns.
If these stories offer you even a single quiet breath, then this garden has served its purpose.Welcome. Walk slowly.The horizon is softer here.
Christopher T. Winters
Chapter I – Where the Flowers Learned to Dream in Silence
Night had not yet fully settled, but the world was already quieter than a whispered breath. The garden waited in its soft half-light, as if hovering in the peaceful space between waking and dreaming. Along the narrow path of pale stones, flowers swayed gently though no breeze touched them, their petals turning toward a sky that glowed with the last traces of fading amber.
It felt as though every blossom carried a secret—something fragile, something warm. Their colors were muted, softened by dusk; blues blending into shadows, yellows dissolving into the darkening air, whites shimmering like distant memories of stars. Nothing rushed here. Nothing demanded anything. Everything simply existed in a calm, unbroken rhythm.
Farther in the garden, beneath an arch of ivy touched by the day’s final gold, a small cluster of flowers bowed their heads as though listening. Not to the wind, for none stirred. Not to footsteps, for none approached. They seemed to listen inwardly—to the quiet pulse of their own being. It was in this stillness that they learned how to dream.
