You are quite like a wilted flower,
neglected,
dried out,
and crumbled into pieces.
But, why did you still catch my attention with that beyond-belief beauty of yours?
All you need is a little love to bloom,
a little care to grow colorful,
and a litt...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
IV: Wilted Flower
Echoes Of Doubt | Persistent uncertainties that linger like faint reverberations.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
As the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, Minho's eyes flickered open, stirred by the cheerful chirping of the awakening birds.
Yet, sleep had eluded him throughout the night, his mind consumed by the enigmatic events of the previous evening.
Had Iris truly materialized in his room, or had it all been a trick of his weary mind?
He attempted to drift back into slumber, longing to summon her presence once more in the realm of dreams, where perhaps he could glean answers to the mysteries that plagued him.
But sleep remained elusive, each attempt thwarted by the haunting memory of the feather he had clutched tightly throughout the night.
Its sharp edges seemed to whisper secrets of their own, leaving Minho to ponder their ominous significance.
With a resigned sigh, he rose from his bed, the cool tiles of the orphanage bathroom welcoming him as he sought solace in the ritual of morning ablutions.
Splashing his face with icy water, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, the weight of the night's revelations etched into the lines of his weary countenance.
As he brushed his teeth, the taste of sleeplessness lingered on his tongue, mingling with the bitter tang of unanswered questions.
He had no appetite for breakfast, his stomach twisted into knots by the tumultuous whirlwind of thoughts that raged within him.
Leaving the confines of the orphanage behind, Minho embarked on the familiar journey to school, the bustling streets offering little distraction from the turmoil of his mind.
With each step, he rehearsed the tale he would soon recount to his friend Riki, the only confidant he trusted enough to share the weight of his burden.
Though apprehension gnawed at him, Minho found solace in the knowledge that he possessed tangible proof of his nocturnal encounter: the feather, a glinting shard of evidence that defied explanation.
