The package, wrapped in brown paper and littered with at least a dozen post marks from as many (likely frustrated) mailmogs because the delivery address had been smudged and warped by moisture, wasn’t very large. A pocket-sized field guide on plants of Gridania, spine broken from age and use, page edges wobbly from whatever moisture had ruined the address label; a book that had spent a long time in someone’s hands. Pressed between pages, at no particular intervals, were petals and leaves and blades of grass, some more dry and fragile than others, a testament to the order they must have been pressed, all from different sources, from varying environs. Many still kept their scent, if held close to the nose, and the book itself bore the residue of many mingled fragrances on its pages even if the flowers were removed.
There was no enclosed note, no return address on the paper wrapping. Only a tiny drawing of a feline with green eyes on the bottom corner of the inside front cover, its pose rather like a wooden carving that had come to life some time ago between the hands of the book’s recipient as he sat on a cliff edge.
@erahsae-ffxiv
