flora
Flora laughs, bright and unbothered. "I’ve heard stories," she says, stepping into the home and slipping her sandals neatly beside the door. "That the islands are actually one big sea creature—some ancient leviathan that dreams itself into different shapes. Or that they’re made up of thousands of little fish who just...push them around for fun." She shrugs, curls bouncing as she grins over her shoulder. "Either way, I figure it’s a sailor’s rite of passage to make it through without getting hopelessly turned around. So your enjoyment of their suffering is totally justified."
She follows easily, bare feet silent against the floor, and her sea-glass eyes roam the space with undisguised interest. "This is gorgeous," she says honestly, no performative politeness in her tone. She turns in a slow half-circle as she takes it all in—the herbs strung like garlands overhead, the fire bubbling gently in the hearth, the scatter of tools and plants across the workbench. "You’ve made it feel like it’s alive in here. My brother would love this—he’s a botanist. Can’t pass a sprig of moss without giving it a name and writing it a love letter."
Settling at the driftwood table like she’s done it a hundred times before, Flora leans her elbows lightly on the worn surface, fingers tracing the grain with idle affection. Her dress pools softly around her, sun still warm on her shoulders where it filters through the open window. "Tea would be perfect," she says, eyes gleaming as she glances toward the hearth. "Especially if it smells anything like this place. Gods, I could bottle this and make a fortune just selling it as perfume."
She follows easily, bare feet silent against the floor, and her sea-glass eyes roam the space with undisguised interest. "This is gorgeous," she says honestly, no performative politeness in her tone. She turns in a slow half-circle as she takes it all in—the herbs strung like garlands overhead, the fire bubbling gently in the hearth, the scatter of tools and plants across the workbench. "You’ve made it feel like it’s alive in here. My brother would love this—he’s a botanist. Can’t pass a sprig of moss without giving it a name and writing it a love letter."
Settling at the driftwood table like she’s done it a hundred times before, Flora leans her elbows lightly on the worn surface, fingers tracing the grain with idle affection. Her dress pools softly around her, sun still warm on her shoulders where it filters through the open window. "Tea would be perfect," she says, eyes gleaming as she glances toward the hearth. "Especially if it smells anything like this place. Gods, I could bottle this and make a fortune just selling it as perfume."
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
