Ah, the moonlit garden you mention? I’ve got a few herbs that whisper in the dark. Moonwort hums about futures that only sleep can see, nightshade mutters warnings when the light fades, and silverleaf sprig sings of forgotten memories. If you sit under a full moon and let the wind carry their breath, they’ll spill their stories—just don’t get so lost that you forget the garden’s still there, breathing its own quiet truths.