She stood beneath the wisteria, sword planted in the earth, trembling.
Petals drifted around her like falling memories. Her tears slid down her cheeks, silent, steady.
This garden had once been her mother’s. A place of laughter, not blood. Now, all that remained was the scent of flowers and the weight of a blade.
She cried—not for the fight she’d won, but for the girl she’d lost.
Above, the wisteria wept with her.
Love, Erinthul