flora
Vai’s letter doesn’t make sense at first, not in the way most things do, where Flora can tilt her head and squint and figure it out with enough charm or tenacity. This one is frustratingly vague, deceptively light, like a joke that never lands and yet somehow demands you laugh anyway.
She must’ve read it a dozen times by now, thumb dragging along the creased fold with the kind of nervousness she’d normally scoff at in someone else. But the worst part, the part she keeps trying to brush off with dramatic groans and sarcastic eye-rolls, is that she remembers. She remembers the party, the wine, the lanterns swaying with the ocean breeze, and the way she’d laughed—light and careless, for once—and asked her Nonna if there wasn't someone in Mort's halls for her. One who hadn't seen the last few seasons of her life play out like a soap opera.
Surely the latest episodes of her life hadn't aired in Mort's realm yet—the ones in which she was deliriously happy with Kaisel—leaving the witch only to watch sad reruns. Or maybe she had seen everything, and didn't approve?
The possibility haunts her more than it should.
It’s Niki who saves her from spiralling, pulling dress after dress from her closet like some long-suffering stylist on a deadline. She vetoes anything too fancy on principle, refuses outright to wear anything with sequins or glitter, and finally, with a sigh that borders on defeat, settles on a sweater dress the colour of cream stirred into coffee. Soft and clingy in all the right places, it manages to look effortless while still giving her curves a little love. Her boots are tall and heeled, adding just enough bite to the sweetness of the rest.
She leaves her curls down, brushing them out until they fall like spun gold around her shoulders, and keeps her jewellery subtle; just a few rings, a pair of earrings, nothing that screams date night. Because this isn’t a date, but she can't just leave some poor (literal) soul wandering around?
Still, as she stands near the edge of the boardwalk, the sun slowly dripping honey over the water, she can’t help but wonder if she’s supposed to be holding a rose, or maybe a single lily, or a scroll with some kind of dramatic code phrase that lets her mystery man know she’s the one. It would help, honestly. Because right now, she’s just...standing.
She must’ve read it a dozen times by now, thumb dragging along the creased fold with the kind of nervousness she’d normally scoff at in someone else. But the worst part, the part she keeps trying to brush off with dramatic groans and sarcastic eye-rolls, is that she remembers. She remembers the party, the wine, the lanterns swaying with the ocean breeze, and the way she’d laughed—light and careless, for once—and asked her Nonna if there wasn't someone in Mort's halls for her. One who hadn't seen the last few seasons of her life play out like a soap opera.
Surely the latest episodes of her life hadn't aired in Mort's realm yet—the ones in which she was deliriously happy with Kaisel—leaving the witch only to watch sad reruns. Or maybe she had seen everything, and didn't approve?
The possibility haunts her more than it should.
It’s Niki who saves her from spiralling, pulling dress after dress from her closet like some long-suffering stylist on a deadline. She vetoes anything too fancy on principle, refuses outright to wear anything with sequins or glitter, and finally, with a sigh that borders on defeat, settles on a sweater dress the colour of cream stirred into coffee. Soft and clingy in all the right places, it manages to look effortless while still giving her curves a little love. Her boots are tall and heeled, adding just enough bite to the sweetness of the rest.
She leaves her curls down, brushing them out until they fall like spun gold around her shoulders, and keeps her jewellery subtle; just a few rings, a pair of earrings, nothing that screams date night. Because this isn’t a date, but she can't just leave some poor (literal) soul wandering around?
Still, as she stands near the edge of the boardwalk, the sun slowly dripping honey over the water, she can’t help but wonder if she’s supposed to be holding a rose, or maybe a single lily, or a scroll with some kind of dramatic code phrase that lets her mystery man know she’s the one. It would help, honestly. Because right now, she’s just...standing.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
