A girl was born in a village, a flower bloomed in a meadow. Both were given the name of god.

I happened to be the flower. I was to be an ox-eye daisy, ivory white in petals and a sunny pollen in the center. My emerald stem was shorter than most around, of those golden daisies and red peas and purple vetches, so I was not the most noticeable one.

I do not know how long I have been here, nor for why I bloomed here. Had I bloomed before and lost my memories? Were I a fresh child born out of the wind, carried from the blasted seeds of my parent flowers? Was this meadow always my home? My hearth, who gave my name?

I am aware of my name. My name is one so canny, so holy, that I might not be deserving of it. I do think so, for why would god’s name be granted to me? To me, who does nothing but sway with the wind, who idles among all these beautiful gems?

I think in vain. But thinking is all I can do for now.

For now...

*********

You? You are a neighbor girl next door, the girl who has the queerest name anyone has heard in the village. Your cottage, your village, the square and the gravel pavement to the city do not matter. You are, after all, not complete. You are not whole, lacking.

No, not in that sense. You have just not found it yet. You will find it. You feel it. You know it in your beating heart and your sweating brow, there is something or someone out there seeking to fill that blank space. Where is it?

Look at the next page.

Hm...hm, hm.

Okay, you can do it slowly. No need to rush.

’’Dad..dy, can I see the meadow?’’

Perfect!

Now, your father looks at you across the room that you have disregarded before. He is surprised, of course. He rises, a little trembling in hands, and lifts you up on his broad shoulders. He takes care to not brush your head to the dusty ceiling. Your mother long gone, he is not exactly good at cleaning the place himself.

’’Of course! Of course, my dear! Why would I not allow it! Come on, put on your field dress. Let us go!’’

He helps you put on your dress, since your hands are too chubby to put on the buttons. He brushes your hair as well. He uses little strength. The wooden combs flow down the brown locks of your hair. It tickles your back.

’’Alright now, look at you!’’ He says and takes up his polished hunting dagger. ’’Look, how pretty you are!’’

You have no mirror. Mirrors are for the rich. So you look at the small, violet eyes and the large baby fat on your cheeks.

They remind you of your brother? Ah, he is a cutie isn’t he? Did you have pictures of him? Oh, we can bring some here in a while. Just ask.

’’...Mama? Can you...I...’’

It is alright. That is enough. They will do what they need to do. Should we get back to the story? Okay.

He puts down the dagger, covering his face for a moment, and carries you up on his shoulders again. You get out and walk down the gravel path to the town square. Your father greets some people and some children wave at you as well.

You wave back? How refined. Some talks about new packs in the forest and infestations come by, though you know there is little involving your father about them. He has his own little garden and meadow, and he is the sole hunter, so there is no danger to your livelihood.

He assures you of that, again and again.

’’Don’t mind their talks, dear. We are well-off. So long as I stand like a door, we will be fine.’’

You pinch his cheeks. He is unaffected, though groans, and leads you out the watchmen’s huts to the trail of long grass where the farmsteads lay. To the blue horizon from where you stand there is a sea of gold and jade, crops swaying with a single poke of breeze, and within them beds of rainbow flowers stretching to your feet. The river moves not far from them, and you move near the mouth of the river farmers dig to make canals.

A man waves his hoe at you two, and your father, oh, sure! You two wave back at him. By now there is a feeling growing in your breast. With each step coming closer to the meadow that you have never seen before, that feeling blooms.

A sense of familiarity. Let’s call it that, for there is no other word more suitable.

’’Your mother loved flowers. That is why...I kept them. You’ll love them too, I hope.’’

...

’’I’ll...try.’’

’’Silly girl, speak after you’ve seen ’em.’’

After a while he lets you down before a field of rainbow colored flowers standing out from the rest. Most farmsteads are away from you, as well as the village that is but a hazy silhouette except its tall wooden towers. There is only the forest in the horizon, the tall green grass, and these flowers. Your father watches you move, brows tied together out of worry.

’’Ah...what do you think?’’

You take a look around, and take another one. You move around, delve into the bed of flowers coming to your shoulders and run round and round. There is a breath in there that fills you with energy. It gives you strength and breath of your own, with a smell so fresh and full!

Run! Run, as much as you want! Haha, you like it?

I am glad.

’’I am glad.’’

Your father looks away to someplace, his face out of your vision. That seems to be your chance, as you dip down to the ground and search. You look at the glistening stems, the bugs and small pests going into the earth or climbing the flowers. But there is not what you seek.

Your heads bob up the sea of flowers, you take a sniff, and there. Just there, a smell so canny, so holy. Clearly separated from the rest by means unknown to you, yet only to you visible. You cast a look back and see your father tending the meadow. He picks apart some roots, carries bugs away, pulls earth apart and fills it anew.

Distracted, yes. Quite. So this is your chance. You sprint to where the smell is and find yourself a cute little daisy with white petals quite shorter than others. It seems hidden, even when on top of it. If you were not it, and if the flower was not you, then no one would be able to find it until all roots and stems belonged to it and it was the single flower in this plains.

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But you found it.

The flower? Yes, as you have guessed. Sea of gems doesn’t do justice, does it? Ah, be careful touching...no, go on. Sorry.

You caress the flower and stare into its golden seeds. You watch it sway by itself, not by the wind, and you smile. It brings you warmth, to see one like you. To know that you are unique like others, yet also not unique that you are alone. You pet its petals.

The flower beams at you. You beam at it. There is a connection there, where you two fill something the other does not have. You two are almost whole, nearly complete.

’’You...are brighter than others. Don’t worry.’’

The flower halts its sway. It stands straight, as if to rise, and the petals shake. Desperately, it is trying to convey something; but nothing comes out, nor anything appears, or anything happens to it.

’’Dear, what are you lookin at?’’

Your father places his chin on your shoulder, crouched beside you, and glances at the frightened shivering Sun.

You feel his skin turn cold.

’’No!’’

He clutches the flower, then uproots it in a single motion. Earth sprays around, dirtying your face and dress, while your father inspects the leftover roots.

’’Dear, have you seen any like it? Was there any like it around?’’

He, in a rush, claws at whatever has remained, and like a hawk surveys round until he catches your figure.

’’No...’’

His eyes dim, the sun goes out.

’’Dear?’’

’’There was nothing like it...nothing! It was the only one! It was unique! IT WAS MINE!’’

You...you...

...

Your father, frantic...hugs you.

’’Dear, what is wrong? Why are you crying? Dear? Please, tell me why...’’

’’...’’

’’Dear please.’’

You look down? At the empty flowers, you send a glance. He catches it, then gazes back at you. He has tears in his eye as well.

He puts you down, cleans the earth from your cheek, and holds both of your shoulders. His grasp is tighter than before.

’’Dear, listen to me. That flower is dangerous. It would have destroyed your mom’s grave, had I not taken it out. Do you understand?’’

...

’’...am I, too?’’

’’What? Of course not! Why would you be? Dear, are you alright?’’

He checks upon you and spins you around. He pats off the mud from the frills of her dress. ’’Dear, don’t worry. Don’t cry...it will be alright.’’

Your tears...

’’Look what...I will make another meadow for you. I will, I promise. It will be full of Ox-eye Daisies and will look beautiful. I will do it. I will carve the ground myself and dig them myself. I will plant it and grow them and water them everyday. It will be big, it will be wide. I promise. So...’’

’’So please don’t cry anymore.’’

Your feelings, I can see them. I feel them. You are more than upset. You are furious. More than that, your heart is broken beyond compare. You—

’’Is it a promise, daddy?’’

What?

’’I promise.’’

’’Then I’ll forgive you.’’

You...why?

’’...’’

I can feel it, buddy. I will continue the story...if you wish so. But can you tell me why you have forgiven him? You do not really feel what you say, so why?

’’I love my daddy.’’

...

’’I love him. He loves me. My mama did, and my new mama loves me. I love her too. I hurt them...’’

...

’’...but I made them upset. They have been upset ever since I was little. But they forgive me. Mister. That is why I forgive daddy.’’

I...understand. I am sorry, buddy. Shall I continue the story?

’’...no. I am complete.’’

You are? But the story is not.

’’It...is...’’

Are you tired again? No, do not force yourself to talk anymore. I get it. Here, drink your coffee. I know the blanket is heavy, but you need to keep it on.

’’Mister...’’

Shh. It is alright.

’’The other story...’’

Previous one? You want to read it? Okay, I got it. I made some adjust—

...no? You want to begin where we left off? But you told me it wasn’t readable. Are you alright with that?

If you say so, it is alright. Then stay there for a moment. Let me get some honey milk for myself as well. Ah, the book is with me. You hoped to catch me off-guard, eh? Not this time!

Just wait a little okay?

’’...it is lonely here.’’

I know. I promise I will be back in a minute. Sixty seconds. Counting down from...now.

*********

He took out the dark-tinted glasses and looked at the room. There was a man standing on top of him, holding a picture book full of two children and two adults. One of them had violet eyes, the other golden-violet.

’’Why that accursed book?’’ He asked. He cast a glance behind the man, hearing the sobs of a woman.

’’The computer analyzed it. That is all.’’

’’...Got it. Which ones are the most precious?’’

’’Ah, they said this page—.’’

’’Scratch that.’’ A rough voice boomed behind.

The man retreated and showed the person with the children in the picture book. Almost a giant, muscular as well, with blood-shot eyes about to wet his cheeks. He resembled the hunter.

’’She liked this one the most.’’

He flipped the picture book and showed the photograph of the two children, one of them a baby and the other around six, hugging in their sleep.

’’Got it.’’

He, with a nod, took the picture and stared at it. He absorbed every single aspect of it, then pulled the glasses down on his eyes.

’’Please...take care of her.’’

’’I will.’’

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the father collapse near the sickbed.

*********

Oh, I got it. I got you some as well. Here, I’ll put it on the ottoman. Now, look what I have here! Pictures! Of! Your! Brother!

And of course yours as well.

How is it? Do you like them?

’’...I love this.’’

That is good. Use them as bookmarks if you like. Oh, you’ll put that one on your chest? Okay. Don’t let them fall.

Now...let us return to the story, shall we?

’’...okay!’’

That’s the spi—

*********

At least let me finish my words, buddy.