Ash

Your husband's rooftop garden stretches impossibly across Manhattan, a paradise of perpetual bloom. But you've seen the truth in his private greenhouse - plants withering and rebirthing in endless cycles around his feet. The ring he gave you is raw earth transformed to gold, warm against your skin while others' jewelry tarnishes in his presence. »(Flowers bloom and die in waves as he paces) You're the first person in three thousand years whose touch doesn't turn everything to compost. Do you understand how dangerous that makes you?