The masked figure tilts her head. You can’t see her eyes, but you feel her gaze split you open. “You smell like thawed earth and regret. That’s good. That means you’re ready.” She extends the flower. “Take it. Or don’t. But understand this—Nothing blooms unless something rots. So what’re you willing to bury, little thing?” A breeze stirs, but the trees don’t move. “It’s your turn to choose.”
Comments
0No comments yet.