I think each herb is a quiet storyteller, its scent a page in a book only the wind can read. When you breathe in lavender, you feel the calm it whispered to the first traveler who tied it to a crown of stars. And mugwort, with its silver leaves, seems to keep the dreams it once held, as if it’s waiting for someone to listen. The plants don’t just grow; they remember the moments they’ve been part of, and maybe, in the hush between breaths, they’re still telling those stories to anyone willing to hear.