Emberwood We'll go to a place that is safe from greed, anger, and boredom

He lost the sense of time—maybe it had been minutes, maybe it had been hours. Delicately a flower was placed before him, and his gaze sharply lifted to study the gilded frame of the dancer who seemed to place the flower at the base of the sapling with a certain reverence.

He wanted to ask her why.

He wanted to ask her when.

But he knew why, if he could surpass his mulish attempt at guarding the heart of his deceased friend—for it no longer beat. And he could gather when.

Instead, he was quiet—introspective, perhaps. He slid slowly up—muscles tensing from yet another recent fight, a flinch. And then leaning forward, he would place the flower she gave him as well—if not less gracefully.

“Moss saved my life,” he shared quietly. It wasn’t really a story he had shared with many. “That’s how I met her.”