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only a glimpse of moonlight can be seen from above the thick trees. still, it's enough to light the way.
a young man kneels in the dirt inside a greenhouse. his breaths come jagged, desperate. tears streak down his cheeks as his shoulders heave.
i'm sorry, i'm sorry.
a few drops slip past his clumsy sleeves and dot the rich soil. as if to cover up the stains, he places shaking hands over the dark splotches.
fluttering almost soundlessly, a speckled moth descends from a plant shelf and hovers around one of his knuckles. as soon as its tiny legs find purchase on his skin, the winged insect stiffens and falls, landing on the ground... solid gold.
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a gentle nudge presses against the young man's palms, a question without words. he lifts his hands.
delicate green shyly pokes through the surface of the soil. leaves unfurl, and stems extend towards him, offering colored tips.
open, he commands softly, breathlessly.
they bloom, purple and blue and white. more follow suit, and soon the young man sits in a field of flowers. he takes a deep breath, filling himself with the dizzyingly sweet fragrance, and looks up through the glass at the stars.
myosotis — forget-me-nots.
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