Forget Me Not

Her love once grew flowers. They could never be sustained for more than a few weeks, but she did it over and over again, each time promising that they would last longer. Why? I know not, but perhaps she enjoyed the fleeting joy of life. And maybe she was right to do so. After all, love is a transient burst, a brief, burgeoning bloom, but nevertheless brief.

Despite this, she chose to love, to find joy in her short years and give grace to another's. Her love was a flower, and she was the most beautiful inside out. But beauty is temporary, and time preys on flowers.

What are the flowers for if they will eventually rot?
What is the point of love if love is lost in the end?
Why do they weep when they already knew their fate in life was to die and return to the ground?
And do they forget? Do they choose to leave the pain and misery behind?
Or do they remember, because memories are a harsh comfort.

I do not know the answers to all this, but I hear whispers in the wind, and I hear the messages from the gods. I hear the songs from the stars, and they all speak of this tale from long ago. I shall try to deliver it to you, the reader, as best as I can. Here is the beautiful tragedy of Quirena Rochelle and her lover's flowers, told from her very own point of view.