this is a church, and these are its flowers. these are its flowers, and this is their girl. and she sits, pollen gathered in the strands of her hair, face smudged with drying mud, trying to hear what they have to say.
this is the girl of the flowers of the church, and it is the church that speaks to her first. walls aching, it tells her of springs gone by. ceiling creaking, it tells her of rainfalls passed.
quietly, it tells her of thresholds crossed. it might not be him, but —— who else is so silent only the bones of a blessed place can catch when he shifts from specter to man? aerith doesn’t turn, but she does say, ❛ if you think any louder, you’re going to hurt yourself. ❜
she waits to see if it is flower or man that answers. // @noirtux
