Paths twist and wander, but every bloom must rest in white.
Some obey the winding root, others leap straight toward the light.

Where a flower ends, a mark remains a memory in six small places.
Count them not by rows, but by the order of what the impaired embraces.

Red walks the drawn line faithfully.
Orange knows shortcuts the map doesn't show.
The odd one has 2 faces, yet it still belongs.
White listens as long as the paths are in sync.

Their marks form letters, their letters form meaning.