The Ashes never fully rested. The air was thick with dust and the faint aroma of soot from countless chimneys. It clung to everything—coating the streets, seeping into the cracks of the cobblestones, and sticking to the skin like a reminder. People moved with a sense of weariness, keeping to their paths, eyes darting between the buildings as if searching for shadows they knew would be there.
We lingered by the door of the small, dimly lit room, standing silently for a moment before Mum finally spoke. Her voice was steady, purposeful, not hurried—like every word carried weight. “Shall we head out, then?”
I nodded, picking up my satchel from the corner—an old leather thing, cracked along the edges, its straps fraying but still holding firm. The contents weren’t much: a flask of stale water, a few crumbs of dried bread wrapped in parchment, and a sliver of hope that it would be enough. I followed Mum as she moved toward the worn basket near the corner—a sturdy thing, patched and sewn from strips of thick grass, frayed but never failing. More than a mere container, it was a testament to her endurance—carrying whatever little we had from one place to the next.
She reached into the basket, her fingers deftly adjusting a few small coins carefully concealed beneath a layer of cloth and a handful of fabric scraps—ones we might trade later for seeds or other necessities. The coins were barely enough to buy anything, but we made them stretch. Mum had been clever with what little we had—her eyes constantly searching for what could be used and salvaged and how we might turn scraps into something usable.
As we stepped outside, the sun hung high, its warmth softened by the afternoon. The streets were alive—merchants shouting, children darting through alleys, the steady clamour of countless feet across uneven cobblestones. But this life felt hollow if you stood still long enough to notice. Everything about the Ashes seemed worn, stained by neglect, as if the weight of the place pressed down on those who lived here.
The narrow paths we took twisted through the maze of the district—buildings huddled close together, their walls streaked with soot, windows either shuttered or broken. Stalls crowded every corner, filled with goods scavenged or stolen—roots pulled from half-hidden gardens, dried herbs piled on tables, old clothes draped over makeshift racks. A butcher stood next to a cart, his knife flashing as he carved what was left of a carcass. Even the meat, though fresh this morning, looked greyish—barely worthy of the prices he shouted. Beside him, a woman balanced a basket on her hip, selling a mix of stale bread and wilted herbs.
“Fresh fish! Straight from the river this morning!” a vendor called out, though the smell told a different story. I glanced toward the stall but quickly turned away, my stomach twisting at the sight of grey scales and dull, lifeless eyes.
As we walked further, the crowds began to thin. The noise faded into the background, replaced by the steady crunch of gravel beneath our feet. The buildings grew smaller here, less clustered, and the air smelt faintly of wild grass breaking through cracked stones. Patches of vibrant flowers—bluebells and daisies—crept through the fissures in the ground, defying the decay around them. Despite the Ashes’ grim reputation, there were moments when something alive clawed its way through the decay.
We turned a corner, and ahead, a wooden sign swayed gently in the breeze: Myrna’s Flower Shop. The wood was weathered, its edges smoothed by time and countless storms. The shop was small and unassuming—just a single-story building with faded white walls and roof tiles patched together with mismatched pieces. Yet, it felt alive. Hanging baskets overflowed with blooms of every colour imaginable, their petals swaying slightly in the breeze as though whispering to each other.
As we approached, the air became thick with a rich, heady scent—sweet, earthy, and foreign. Flowers of all kinds lined the walls—roses in vibrant reds, delicate lavender, mint—their fragrances mingling into something soothing. It was a stark contrast to the lifelessness of the Ashes—almost surreal.
Mum paused outside, her eyes softening as she took in the sight. “Look at this,” she murmured, almost to herself. “They’ve managed to keep so much alive here.”
The wooden door creaked slightly as we stepped inside. The shop felt impossibly lush, as though we had left the Ashes behind entirely. Shelves lined every surface with colourful blooms, their petals vibrant against the dull greys and browns outside. Vases of water sat neatly arranged, and tiny beads of moisture clung to the flowers, making them seem fresh and untouched. The air was thick with the fragrance of roses, lavender, mint, and the faint musk of damp earth. It was like stepping into another world where life had been carefully cultivated, unyielding even to the decay beyond.
“Welcome back, dear. What can I do for you today?” Myrna’s voice was warm and kind—a soft sound that didn’t belong here, where people had grown used to shouting over the din. She emerged from behind the counter, her hands weathered but steady. She was older, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes sharp despite the softness in her tone. She had known us for years—ever since we first came to buy seeds, always looking for ways to plant anything in the scraps of land we could claim as ours.
Myrna stood with a quiet, grounded presence, though she was shorter than most—a petite figure, yet radiating a calm strength. Her silver-streaked hair was loosely tied back in a simple braid that framed her small, gentle face, softened by the years but still sharp in its wisdom. Her skin was a warm, sun-kissed tone, tanned from years spent tending to plants and weathered by time but not dulled by it. Her eyes, a deep brown, sparkled with quiet kindness, and beneath their softness lay a strength that spoke of resilience built over many years.
Her hands, though small, were roughened from countless hours spent planting, digging, and nurturing life—each finger carefully cradling petals with a tenderness that betrayed both skill and care. She wore a simple, worn dress that hung just above her ankles, patched and sewn from soft, durable fabrics, blending practicality with comfort. Her leather sandals peeped from beneath the hem, and though the cloth was well-used, it showed signs of care—stitched with precision and thought.
Her frame was slightly thin, a sign of the poverty that weighed heavily on everyone in the Ashes. Malnourishment was a constant struggle here—hunger lingering like an unseen shadow over daily life. Yet, Myrna’s movements were deliberate, steady, as though she had long since found strength in perseverance.
Around her neck, she wore a small, delicate pendant—an ancient charm that shimmered faintly in the dim light of the shop, a quiet beacon of magic. Her presence was warm but commanding, drawing you in without being overpowering. She carried herself with a sense of purpose, yet her demeanour was welcoming, making you feel safe and at ease in her company.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Mum stepped forward, her posture relaxed but firm. “We’re here for some pots that’ll hold up better this time. And seeds... maybe something fresh for the coming season. And... maybe something small for cheer, if you have it.”
Myrna nodded immediately, moving with practised efficiency. She disappeared for a moment, returning with sturdy clay pots from a high shelf, each one a deep brown with ridges where it had been moulded and baked. She carried them carefully to the counter, then turned toward a large bin of rich, dark, and fresh-smelling soil with a soft and crumbly texture.
As they spoke, I wandered through the shop, drawn toward a display in the back. Exotic flowers with strange, intricate patterns bloomed there—delicate blooms with petals that shifted subtly in the light, faintly glowing. One flower caught my eye—a deep blue blossom with petals that glimmered faintly as though dusted with stars. It had a mystical air, as though it pulsed gently with a hidden power.
Myrna noticed my gaze and moved closer. “This one here,” she said softly, gesturing to the blue flower. “It’s called Lumen Azure. It only grows in the most hidden corners of the East, where the magic still lingers. Its petals shimmer when touched by light and shift in colour depending on the mood of the one who cares for it.”
I leaned in closer, my fingers itching to brush against its soft, velvety petals. “It changes with mood?”
“Yes. When someone feels joy or hope, it blooms brighter—deep azure with shimmering gold. But in sadness or fear, its petals turn a darker, deeper blue, almost like a fading night sky.” Myrna’s voice was low, reverent as though speaking of something sacred. “It symbolises inner peace, resilience even in darkness.”
Next to it, another flower hummed softly—its petals a delicate shade of pink, faint veins of silver running through them. The sound grew slightly louder as I reached out, like a soft tune beneath my fingertips. Myrna smiled. “This one is called Seraphina’s Whisper. When touched, it hums gently—like a song only those with a gentle soul can hear. It brings calm to restless hearts, soothing even the heaviest worries.”
I ran my fingers over the silken petals, listening carefully. Sure enough, the faint vibration vibrated through my fingertips—a soothing, melodic sound that made my chest feel lighter.
“There’s another,” Myrna said, pointing toward a cluster of flowers clustered together, their petals bright orange with streaks of gold. “This is Aurius Bloom—it has a strange power. If you plant its seeds near ruins or abandoned places, the flowers can draw on ancient energy, slowly restoring life to forgotten lands. The petals shimmer with an ethereal glow at dawn, and at night, they pulse faintly, as though connected to something older, something once alive.”
I knelt closer to the Aurius Bloom, tracing my fingers over the delicate petals. There was something almost hypnotic about the way the light danced across its surface—golden, shimmering, with a warmth that seemed to reach out.
“These... they’re special,” I murmured.
“Yes,” Myrna replied, her eyes softening as she watched me. “Each carries its magic, but it’s subtle—gentle. Nothing overt. They help in small ways, unseen to most. But to those who know how to care for them, they bring more than just beauty.”
I stood slowly, turning to look at Mum, who had been watching quietly. Her eyes flicked to the flowers, her expression thoughtful.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “But... they seem so fragile.”
Myrna nodded, her voice gentle. “Beauty like this—true beauty—it’s always fragile. But it’s also strong in its way. They don’t grow easily, and they don’t thrive where the world is cold or cruel. They require someone who will nurture them and believes in the promise of something more.”
Mum moved forward, picking up a bundle of seeds carefully, her fingers brushing over the packets.
“Maybe... maybe we could use something like this. Something to remind us that there’s more out there than just the Ashes.”
Myrna smiled, grabbing a small vial filled with shimmering powder behind the counter. “This here,” she said, handing it over to Mum, “is seed dust from the Lumen Azure. If you sprinkle a little on other seeds, it will imbue them with a trace of its magic—help them grow strong even in poor soil.”
Mum accepted it carefully, holding it like it was the most valuable thing in the world.
Mum set the carefully gathered pots and seeds on the worn wooden counter, her fingers tracing the edges of the soil-smeared bags to ensure every bit was accounted for. Myrna stood behind the counter, watching with quiet patience, her expression calm and steady, as though she had done this many times before—watched people carefully consider every coin they spent.
“Let’s see,” Myrna murmured, pulling a cloth pouch from beneath the counter. Her fingers deftly counted the coins hidden inside. Each piece gleamed faintly in the dim light, worn smooth from many hands. “This should cover the pots, the soil... and the dust,” she said softly, eyeing the vial Mum still clutched like it was something precious.
Mum nodded, pulling out a few more coins from her pocket—coins that had once been reserved for other things, food that could barely be afforded, or scraps to trade when we needed more warmth. She laid them on the counter, smoothing her fingers over the metal, carefully ensuring each coin was seen. “That should be enough.”
Myrna’s hands moved slowly, methodically placing the coins into a small pouch tied tightly with a leather string. She glanced up at Mum, her eyes soft but knowing. “It’ll be enough. These seeds... they’ll help you, I know. Just be sure to plant them well. They need care.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Mum replied, her voice steady but firm, almost promising more than just tending to plants. She glanced at me briefly, a flicker of pride crossing her face. “We’ll make them grow.”
I stood by her side, watching silently, my fingers curling slightly into my palms. The flowers we had touched earlier still lingered in my thoughts—their vibrant petals and the faint hum that had resonated through my fingertips. The promise of something more than survival seemed almost real now, tangible in a way I hadn’t felt before.
Myrna leaned slightly forward, a soft smile playing at her lips. “Take these. And remember—nurture them. Let their magic guide you. Even here, in the Ashes, where it seems like nothing thrives, there’s still hope to be found.”
Mum gathered the small bundle—seeds, pots, and the vial of shimmering dust—and held them close to her chest. Her fingers brushed over the fabric as if trying to absorb Myrna’s words, hoping they would take root as much as the seeds in her hands.
We stepped back into the sunlight, the heat now softer and more manageable. The streets of the Ashes stretched before us once more, alive with the usual clamour of life. But something about this moment felt different—lighter as if the weight of our journey had momentarily shifted.
The shop’s door creaked softly behind us, and the smell of flowers lingered in the air. Mum shifted the bags in her arms, carefully adjusting the bundle of seeds and pots. I could still feel the hum of the flowers lingering in my mind—their magical presence settling like a gentle warmth in my chest. I finally glanced back once, taking in the sight of the flowers—so vibrant, so full of life, even here in this place of decay.
I exhaled slowly and looked down at the supplies in my hands: pots, seeds, a small bundle of hope. For a moment, it felt like something deeper had shifted beyond just the things we carried.
We didn’t speak as we started walking, the noise of the Ashes fading softly into the background. The cobblestones beneath our feet seemed less uneven now, and the air didn’t feel as heavy.
As we moved forward, I realised—maybe it wasn’t just about survival anymore. Maybe, just maybe, these small things we had found could be something more. And perhaps, for the first time, I allowed myself to believe that, even in the Ashes, there could still be something left to hope for.
For now, though, we stepped into the streets once more—carrying with us the weight of the moment but a lighter step in our hearts.
And ahead, the world awaited.