ASHFALL FLOATS DOWN EVER GENTLY, dusting the caverns in a coat of what one could mistake as freshly powdered snow, were it not for the heat that embraces them. winter was no longer here on this island, but that means relatively little to the woman who finds herself seated to the side of the pathway with an empty basket beside her, crimson resting upon the stretch of what so many locals call the garden of ash. after all, it wasn’t so far-fetched to simply imagine yourself amid a blanket of snow, even when it was from a source far beyond winter’s calling. so she remains quietly, almost a little contented at the scene of it all.
until she decides to speak, no less to a bystander who has found himself drawn to the area, too. ❝ Did you know that a lot of flowers have a symbolism behind them? At least back where I’m from. It’s a little funny to me... I’m not quite sure where it started; whether if it was because someone wanted them to from the start or just got embarrassed being turned down, so they scrambled to save face, ❞ she muses, a hand reaching beyond to cup a rose’s petals as if it were a fragile wine glass. ❝ But I don’t know a lot of these flowers growing here. They say they’re native to other places where we come from and not just this island. Isn’t it kind of exciting? ❞ that, even now, they can still flourish despite being plucked so far from the home they prosper in.
❝ I wonder if any of them were given a meaning where they come from, too. ❞
@miracleworks
