Lily Fern had never been fooled by her brother’s fake affection. She could read emotions like an open book.
At first sight, she looked normal.
But she saw things differently to others. She found simple things, such as grass, clouds and butterflies incredible. She would look into the sky, and see not emptiness, but thousands of tiny molecules forming every inch. She would see clouds, lovingly crafted by Nature’s own hand. Birds, with exquisitely detailed plumage. Aeroplanes, one of mankind’s many wonders.
So she would lie outside for hours on end, staring dreamily into the heavens, and only when her stomach began to grumble would she realise just how long she had lain there.
When Lily saw a wooden chest of drawers, she would lay a palm on the surface of the polished oak. She would talk to it; listen as it told her of the times when it had stood proud and tall amongst its fellow trees. Trees knew many secrets. Lily knew them all.
Books would whisper to her. Lily didn’t need her eyes to read; she would simply send her mind into its pages, be drawn into each carefully shaped letter. She would run, fight, dive, steal, lie along with the characters. She would feel their pain, feel their fear, and feel their love.
Sighing, she stood up and brushed the grass off her back, pausing to watch as it drifted lazily down to rest on the neatly mown lawn. She heard the delicate patter of tiny feet, and paused, listening carefully. It was coming from the hydrangea bush, three paces to her left. Slowly, she crept over, and peered through the leafy boughs. A tiny ladybird was crawling across a thin branch. Lily knelt down, listening. She concentrated, and sharpened her vision, staring intently at the tiny creature. She pushed her vision towards the ladybird, zooming in. The drops of morning dew glistened on its back. Zooming in closer, Lily noticed its tiny black eyes. Many people assume that the two white marks on the front of the ladybird are the eyes, but Lily knew better. A ladybird’s eyes are situated on the top of its head, just above the antennae.
Hesitantly, Lily reached out a slender finger, and let the ladybird crawl onto her hand. Sensing its touch, she reached her mind out into her hand, down her finger, to where the ladybird touched her flesh. Suddenly, she knew that each eye is made of many sections called ommatidia, and each ommatidium is able to pick up important details, such as brightness. The ommatidia point in different directions, helping ladybirds to notice when something around them moves.
Carrying on, she pushed her mind into the ladybird itself.
“Hello. My name is Lily Fern.” She projected
“What use does a ladybird have for names?” replied the insect.
“None, whereas humans have many. Therefore, being human, I have one.” She answered, without hesitation.
“Very well,” accepted the ladybird, “I must admit, I have never met another of your kind, quite like you.”
“Me neither.” agreed Lily.
“Lily! Breakfast!” came her father’s voice. With a sigh, Lily placed the ladybird back in the bush.
“I’ll be back.” She promised. Maybe she was imagining things, but she thought she saw the insect bow its head.
***
Lily hummed to herself as she spread butter over her toast. Straightening her tie, she took a seat at the wooden table, and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She had always liked mornings; probably because Sam wasn’t around. Sam definitely wasn’t a morning person.
