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the golden flower.

the plant that came from above. their favorite.

the bloom they had seemingly longed for with their final sigh.

flowey, who came to be in a world without them. who opened his eyes to find himself returned, not as he had been, but as this. a flower. their flower.

how dare he?

how dare he sprout in a universe where they were no longer there? how dare he exist here, in the soil where their feet would never tread? how could he rise, knowing they would never see the world from this height again?

he detested it. the golden glow of his petals. the way any stray sunlight that found its way down there seemed to favor him, as if he had any right to it. the way the wind would languorously rock him, as though he was meant to be part of something bigger. something whole.

but he wasn’t. he was loss personified. grief, given root and reaching. punishment. memoria. a living wound. every inch of him, a reminder of a breath that had long since stopped. every petal, an apology he would never get to offer.

was this atonement? or the most unsparing of mercies?

to take on the shape of their last wish, but now they’re not there to witness its morbid fulfillment. to be both their tribute and their executioner. to bear the figure of the very thing that witnessed what he had done. what he had failed to do, actually.

the golden flowers now surrounded him. they were all he had left of his best friend. and as much as he tried to curse them for everything they had taken, he couldn’t sever the bond. wouldn't.

because as long as these plants thrived, as long as the earth still held their roots—his roots...