your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora hums softly, a thread of sympathy woven through the sound. Her head tips in quiet understanding, curls shifting as she nods. "I’m luckier than most," she says, and though the words hold truth, there’s no pride in them, only the fragile kind of grace that comes from knowing how rare it is. "My father’s one of Mort’s demigods. So when someone we love dies, he can..." Her hand lifts vaguely, as if conjuring the memory, the shape of a soul cupped in reverent hands. "He can bring them back, for a time. Not all the way, but enough to speak. To see them."
A small shrug follows, the gesture softer than usual, edged with the honesty she doesn’t often wear in front of strangers. "I know how lucky that is. But it’s still not the same as having them around."
The next question doesn’t need much thought. Flora's eyes lift to meet Lysandra’s, clear and certain. "I’d tell the story where he comes back from the dead." It’s not fanciful, not wistful. It’s fact, delivered like a promise wrapped in prophecy. Like a page already written, just waiting to be read aloud. For all her sparkle and charm, Flora is steady in this moment, bright with something far more dangerous than grief; hope.
But it’s brief. Her smile tugs into something lighter, a small shift of weight back into herself. "Anyway," she says, gently brushing her coat sleeve as if to settle the moment back into the folds of her day, "I should be going."
She casts one last glance toward the orca above—not directly, just enough to catch the edge of its shine—before looking back at Lysandra with a warmer smile. "It was nice to meet you, Lysandra." And then she turns, bootsteps soft against the ancient wood as she starts down the stairs, the sky above her full of stories not yet finished.
~FIN
A small shrug follows, the gesture softer than usual, edged with the honesty she doesn’t often wear in front of strangers. "I know how lucky that is. But it’s still not the same as having them around."
The next question doesn’t need much thought. Flora's eyes lift to meet Lysandra’s, clear and certain. "I’d tell the story where he comes back from the dead." It’s not fanciful, not wistful. It’s fact, delivered like a promise wrapped in prophecy. Like a page already written, just waiting to be read aloud. For all her sparkle and charm, Flora is steady in this moment, bright with something far more dangerous than grief; hope.
But it’s brief. Her smile tugs into something lighter, a small shift of weight back into herself. "Anyway," she says, gently brushing her coat sleeve as if to settle the moment back into the folds of her day, "I should be going."
She casts one last glance toward the orca above—not directly, just enough to catch the edge of its shine—before looking back at Lysandra with a warmer smile. "It was nice to meet you, Lysandra." And then she turns, bootsteps soft against the ancient wood as she starts down the stairs, the sky above her full of stories not yet finished.
~FIN
