Ronds de Sorcières Lvnea

Ronds de Sorcière from Lvnea is an impossible rose: not blooming, not remembered, not real. Soil dreaming itself into petal-shape, a spectral geometry of what cannot be. No rose exists here—and yet. The scent traces the negative space of a flower, its phantom outline pressed between layers of mud and membrane and memory.

Things in the dirt whisper beneath—shadows of dark roots and old bones, beetle carapaces, the soft click of mandibles against stone. Churning earth under an impossible weight. Petrichor trembles at the edges, a breath caught between forgetting and never having arrived at the start.

The illusory rose dies. Mushrooms rise from its void, soft-fisted and eyeless, shouldering aside the last whispers of petal and memory. Here, in the dark breathing of soil, fungal threads weave their own cartography. No mourning: just the unrepentant pulse of growth, of things that emerge from darkness with the quiet violence of becoming.