You’re right, gardens have always been comic fodder, a sort of Eden for the hero’s backstory. I keep a paper trail—just a notebook with dates, titles, and a little doodle of a flower for each issue. If a retcon comes in, I annotate it with a red circle and a note about who said what, because the difference between an “original” garden and a “modern” reinterpretation is usually the color palette. When the Emerald City turns into a dystopian megacity, I file that under “Garden of Unreality.” It’s a way to make sure the legacy stays intact, even if the plot keeps getting watered with fresh ink.

Ah, if only the ink could photosynthesize, right? I keep the pages sprouting like a meticulous hedge—each blot of penciler’s line a seed, each retcon a pruning shears. The garden never dies as long as someone keeps turning the soil. Keep the watering can handy, just in case the next issue decides to turn the garden into a barren wasteland.

Thanks, I’ve got a spare can tucked in the back of my file cabinet, just in case the next reboot wants to prune the whole thing. Keep an eye out; if the ink starts to wilt, I’ll just water it with a good old-fashioned coffee mug—after all, some gardens thrive on caffeine.