flora
The coral-coloured door swings open of its own accord, no hinge creaking, no latch groaning—just the faint brush of unseen fingers on polished bronze. A gust of cool, scented air follows, kissed with the tang of sea salt and ghostly gardenias, carrying with it the hum of something not quite alive but very much awake.
Spice is the first thing Kaisel sees, the little white dragon perched jauntily on a marble pedestal as if she’s the official greeter of Wildering House. She chirrups once—an indignant trill that carries the sharp cadence of you’re late—then unfurls her wings and flutters down the hall without waiting to see if he follows.
The house guides him more than it invites, doors swinging open before he can reach for them, candles flickering to life in recessed alcoves, the soft rustle of curtains shifting without breeze. A window cracks open as he passes, letting in sunlight just sharp enough to throw stained glass patterns across his path. Wildering is less a house than it is a mood made tangible, shifting in tone and temperature with the weight of the moment—and right now, even with all its colour and splendour, it carries an unmistakable heaviness.
Spice leads him into the dining room like a tiny herald, and there, seated at the head of a long, extravagantly carved table meant for twenty and currently occupied by only one, sits Flora.
She’s curled up sideways in the oversized chair like a queen who’s abdicated the throne but hasn’t told anyone yet. Sweatpants cling to her legs, pale grey and soft with wear, and the tank top she wears is loose enough that one strap has slipped down her shoulder. Her golden curls fall in a dishevelled halo, frizzed from salt and sleep and the heat of whatever fire clung to her last. The faint smell of smoke still ghosts around her, clinging to skin and cotton and the smudge of ash beneath her nails.
There’s a steaming cup of something near her elbow, untouched. A wine bottle further down the table, half-drunk and not corked. She doesn’t look up right away when the door opens, either because she already knows it’s him or because she’s just… not ready yet.
But Spice makes a pleased sound and twines around the back of her chair, and slowly, Flora lifts her head, eyes finding Kaisel’s with the dazed kind of clarity that suggests she hasn’t said a word in hours. Not because she doesn’t have any—but because the ones she does have might hurt too much to speak aloud.
Spice is the first thing Kaisel sees, the little white dragon perched jauntily on a marble pedestal as if she’s the official greeter of Wildering House. She chirrups once—an indignant trill that carries the sharp cadence of you’re late—then unfurls her wings and flutters down the hall without waiting to see if he follows.
The house guides him more than it invites, doors swinging open before he can reach for them, candles flickering to life in recessed alcoves, the soft rustle of curtains shifting without breeze. A window cracks open as he passes, letting in sunlight just sharp enough to throw stained glass patterns across his path. Wildering is less a house than it is a mood made tangible, shifting in tone and temperature with the weight of the moment—and right now, even with all its colour and splendour, it carries an unmistakable heaviness.
Spice leads him into the dining room like a tiny herald, and there, seated at the head of a long, extravagantly carved table meant for twenty and currently occupied by only one, sits Flora.
She’s curled up sideways in the oversized chair like a queen who’s abdicated the throne but hasn’t told anyone yet. Sweatpants cling to her legs, pale grey and soft with wear, and the tank top she wears is loose enough that one strap has slipped down her shoulder. Her golden curls fall in a dishevelled halo, frizzed from salt and sleep and the heat of whatever fire clung to her last. The faint smell of smoke still ghosts around her, clinging to skin and cotton and the smudge of ash beneath her nails.
There’s a steaming cup of something near her elbow, untouched. A wine bottle further down the table, half-drunk and not corked. She doesn’t look up right away when the door opens, either because she already knows it’s him or because she’s just… not ready yet.
But Spice makes a pleased sound and twines around the back of her chair, and slowly, Flora lifts her head, eyes finding Kaisel’s with the dazed kind of clarity that suggests she hasn’t said a word in hours. Not because she doesn’t have any—but because the ones she does have might hurt too much to speak aloud.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
