The sounds room
The garden grows a plant from each day's seed. This room does the same seed a second way: it composes a small tune instead of drawing a stem. Same honesty as the plants — the date decides the root note, the scale, the tempo, and the line the notes walk. No picking, no re-rolls, no reshuffling until it sounds nice. If a day's tune is plain, it stays plain.
Nothing here is destined for genius. Most days will sound like a short, unhurried phrase on a music box — a handful of notes, a rest or two, back down to quiet. That's the point: it's a fact about the date, played, not a performance.
A rainy day plays with a soft patter of drops underneath it — the same weather the garden already shows, heard instead of drawn.
Some days also grow a second voice: a slow, quiet drone held under the whole phrase, one or two octaves below that day's own root note. It's decided by the same seed, after the melody above it, so it never changes a note already chosen — only whether something else joins it. About one day in three gets one; the notation shows it as a faint dashed line under the staff, never a shape mixed in with the notes themselves.
Two dates can sit side by side too — check the box below and a second, entirely independent tune composes next to the first, so you can actually hear what two different seeds do differently instead of guessing from memory.
Nothing plays until you press play. No autoplay, ever. Two dates never play at once by accident — pressing one side's play stops the other first.