I remained lying in the flower field, the petals cradling me like a bed spun from memory and sorrow. The soft scent of wild blooms hung in the air, sweet yet bitter on my tongue. I could not return to the cabin, not yet. The walls were too close, the air too stale. That space felt like a cell a quiet prison where my thoughts grew louder, sharper, more unbearable.
A sigh escaped my lips as I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the golden afternoon sunlight. The warmth burned gently against my skin. But it could not melt the frost clinging to my chest.
The butterfly had not returned since that night.
Was it disappointed in me?
Perhaps it had expected more. perhaps it believed I could have stopped what it had shown me in those visions, blood, betrayal, endings I was too powerless to change. Maybe it had given up and maybe… I had, too.
