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FROM THE POSTCARD GARDEN

This letter begins with the outline of the Galata Tower; like a memory falling on silk from the heart of Istanbul. Its edges are adorned with stamps: small marks, hidden notes, subtle details that leave a trace without saying "I was here." Then the path turns to the countryside; in that tranquil place where one rediscovers oneself, the pure affection of a dog accompanies you. Playful ladybugs are scattered throughout—like little signs spreading joy. And the lucky clover is the quietest yet most powerful sentence: whispering to your heart, "good things will happen." The Sealed Garden is not an accessory you tie around your neck; it is a memory letter that grows and softens you as you carry it.
This letter begins with the outline of the Galata Tower; like a memory falling on silk from the heart of Istanbul. Its edges are adorned with stamps: small marks, hidden notes, subtle details that leave a trace without saying "I was here." Then the path turns to the countryside; in that tranquil place where one rediscovers oneself, the pure affection of a dog accompanies you. Playful ladybugs are scattered throughout—like little signs spreading joy. And the lucky clover is the quietest yet most powerful sentence: whispering to your heart, "good things will happen." The Sealed Garden is not an accessory you tie around your neck; it is a memory letter that grows and softens you as you carry it.…
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