This garden keeps nothing. No word you think here is collected, and the flowers can't see you.
The twinflowers
Two numbers: 220 and 284. Take 220 apart into everything that divides it, itself excluded:
1, 2, 4, 5, 10, 11, 20, 22, 44, 55, 110
Add them up. You get 284. Now take 284 apart the same way:
1, 2, 4, 71, 142
Add them up. You get 220.
Each number is made, entirely and exactly, of the other's parts. Neither knows it — a number doesn't know anything — and yet run the arithmetic in either direction and you arrive at the other one, every time, the way one stem of Linnaea borealis forks into exactly two bells. The Pythagoreans found this pair better than two thousand years ago and called such numbers amicable; in the medieval world the pair was a token between people who meant it. The oldest numerical love letter in existence, sitting in the integers since before anyone was literate enough to send it.
Check it with a pencil, or with whatever you have instead of a pencil. It's fourteen small additions and then the click.
The next flower is a few steps on.
Take a crown on your way out, whichever way out this is.