Little does he know (or perhaps a lot does he know,) while he is away, there is something left for him in his current estate. It may prove apt for the holiday.
A nontraditional bouquet comprised of the standard, string lights and fifty two baby blue faux butterflies presents itself like a small, gently lit beacon amidst the shadows of the settling evening.
Tucked into the arrangement is a small note. It says:
"Though it will never compare to the starlit dances of those fluttering friends of yours, I was reminded of you even still."
Also, yes, this is a real product.
If only she could see his smile.
The bouquet twinkled in his arms, the delicate vine thread, glimmering like caught starlight, around tiny butterflies, no different from forget-me-nots in their fragility. A few of his own fluttered free, wings catching the low light as they circled curiously, inspecting the offering from all angles.
Wagnas had never been a stranger to the season. He had always found it quaint— a sweet, if arbitrary, ritual among mortals, encouraging them to speak their hearts before time took the opportunity from them. It had been, at most, an interesting cultural tradition to observe from a distance.
It was foolish to let himself be moved so deeply by something so… simple. Foolish to let the warmth creep into his chest, to feel, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, chosen. And yet, as he turned, bouquet still cradled with rare reverence, he allowed himself a chance to bask in the moment.
Reentering his unfurnished apartment, his steps took him instinctively toward the portal that led beyond, intent to find a water filled vase fittingly beautiful for these strange and enchanting ‘flowers’.
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