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I don’t allow myself the pleasure of slowly waking up, rushing to get out of bed. First, I place my precious objects: Holly’s boots, under my bed, then get ready for my day. Eat, clean, dress, all done in a blur of motions. I want to study some more before I have to head over to Mentor Acacia’s abode. 

We were going over various magical effects on the skeletal structure before I left IronHenge. She’ll be watching me closely so I have to act accordingly. Which will be hard to do considering how much I need to do. 

I want to know why the necromancer would attack IronHenge. Learning what angered them could help prevent other attacks. There’s the matter of how and why Mentor Acacia came to get me herself and why no one else was told I was gone. 

But my top priority is restoring Hollyhock’s memory. Easier said than done, I’ll have to travel to the other side of the world, find the assassin, and hope my spell will work. It’ll have to but I can’t help but have my doubts. The longer she’s without them the more her brain will try to fill in the blanks; making it harder for her memories to be integrated back in. I can’t confidently say how much time I can spare, but the sooner I can get back the better. 

With all that said, I’ll need more help than just Barlow. But it’ll be dangerous, with the number of laws I'm going to break I doubt I can hand out flyers to recruit people. 

…

This would be easier with Hollyhock, she’s good at coming up with plans.

I’ll have to make do without her…for now. 

It’s best not to keep Mentor Acacia waiting. I take a deep breath and head outside. Not more than two steps from my home do I bump into Azalea. A whirlwind of papers and books forms between us. 

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going!” Azalea says as we start picking up her stuff. 

“I’m such a clutz!” 

“Don’t worry about it, I have a lot on my mind and wasn’t paying attention,” I counter. Looking over her texts, I see nothing particularly interesting. Some history, some general magic theory. Nothing too exciting. 

“I’m sure, with the one and only Miss Acacia being your mentor; I’m positive she keeps you busy with stimulating lessons,” Azalea points out. 

“Mentor…,”

“Adansonia,” Azalea supplies. 

“Doesn’t have anything that piques your interest?” I ask as I pick up another tome. We get all her things back in her hands. Azalea shrugs as we both stand back up. 

Giving her a quick look over, she’s dressed in the same fashion I usually see her in. A simple teal sundress that compliments her dark brown skin. I detect some minor enchantments on her dress. Climate control if I had to guess. Her large purple afro is done up in a bun under her wide-brim hat. 

She has a very angular-shaped face, and cheekbones so sharp that they could cut diamonds. Intense burning orange eyes. Despite this, I find her to be quite adorable. Perhaps it’s her demeanor. She’s trepidatious, walking around like at any moment a horrible curse might afflict her. Yet I sense a thirsty ambition in her. Surely all the texts I’ve seen her run around with can’t be all required from her Mentor. 

I’ve sometimes wondered what she’d be like in bed; would her mousy disposition submit to whatever her partner wants, or would some greater eagerness take hold? 

Though, given the current circumstances, my sexual appetite is muted. I’m not interested in any carnal desires until I’ve helped Hollyhock. 

“Well, when you have as many students as my Mentor, you can only do so much,” Azalea answers.

When one masters their craft, it’s considered an honor to take on apprentices. Not only does it demonstrate your ability, but also furthers whatever particular philosophies one might have. Prestige and preservation of your school of magic all in one. 

Most Mentors take on five or so apprentices, and some teach upwards of ten. 

I’m Mentor Acacia’s sole student. Much to the chagrin and envy of many other Witch apprentices. She’s considered one of the most respected magicians, and the most sought-after Witch. Many have asked for her tutelage; she personally invited me to learn under her. 

Before me, I don’t know if she’s had any other pupils.

I’ve tried not to think about it too much and just be grateful for this tremendous opportunity. But with what’s happened recently, I have some inklings of suspicions. 

“What would you rather be learning?” I ask. Azalea offers another shrug for an answer. 

“I’m not even sure, honestly. Everything I’ve been learning is so…standard. Safe, boring, nothing challenging.”

My eyebrow rises involuntarily as a thought comes to mind. 

“Azalea,” I start “do you think you could help me out with a…research project?”

“I’d be happy to point you in the right direction of some tomes,” she suggests. 

“That’s the thing, I don’t really know where to look. And if I’m being honest…”

I stop to look around. There’s no one in the immediate vicinity, that doesn’t mean I’m not being observed but this little act is to garner interest. 

I lean in to whisper in her ear,

“What I’m looking for might cause a bit of trouble, if I get caught.”

Her body, for a moment, tenses up as she comprehends what I’m asking. She purses her lips in thought, but then a small devilish smile appears. 

I have her attention. 

“Well, Mentor Adansonia is always telling us to look for the stories not often told. It’s time I put that into practice, I suppose.” 

“I’ll give you some specifics later, I have to get going.”

A wide smile shines on her face, she’s excited to hear more. I can only hope her enthusiasm will hold when I tell her what it’s all about. 

“Looking forward to it! See you later,” Azalea says. 

We bid each other farewell and I head over to Mentor Acacia’s abode. 

Unlike most, her home isn’t shared with any other household, it’s a singular place. A few of the most respected magicians have similar situations. Mastery of their crafts usually has their homes doubling as whatever facility their profession requires. In this case, her home is a hub for those needing a Witch’s services. Be it magical maladies, rebounded wards, or cursed injuries; harmful magic is best fixed by a Witch and there’s no better Witch around than Mentor Acacia. 

One could argue that not having a space to oneself is greedy, one could also argue that having to wait in line to get into your own home is infinitely more irritating. 

 

Mentor Acacia’s home is made from volcanic rock, with plants harboring any space they can, and vines doing their best to cover every inch of the exterior. Many of the plants serve some medicinal purpose, which she uses in her craft, but she is not the one who maintains them. That duty belongs to the man who greets me with a warm smile. 

“Hazel! It’s nice to see you again!” Nelumbo says. A beautiful man if ever there was one, he has a slim, but muscled build. Nelumbo takes his magical craft to a personal level. Thick vines grow from his head, styled into a ponytail like one would do with locs. Flowers inhabit his goatee, and bees and butterflies seem at home around him. The rougher parts of his skin, his elbows, and knees, have bark protruding out. It blends in with the rest of his brown complexion. 

A Druid through and through, he is in kinship with nature. Some would say that a Druid’s job is to control plants, but Nelumbo has taught me it’s more than control. It’s about guidance and balance. Druids commune with the living things of the Earth, magical or not. They’re the ones that perfected climate control magic without displacing excess heat, keeping the ecosystem around Arcaniums in ideal conditions. 

“Always a pleasure to see you!” I say in return. Nelumbo closes the distance and we greet each other with a hug. He gives a one-armed hug, his right hand has an artist’s palette. Or a Druid’s version, it’s a chunk of bark that has his paints on it. 

When we separate he gives me a quick look over. 

His seafoam green eyes have a very calming effect as if he were a Soothsayer. There’s a paintbrush behind his ear. 

He has on a smock made from dried seaweed. It’s hard to tell what’s just the garment itself and dried paint. 

“I’ll cover for you being late,” he offers. 

“Thanks, I’m not trying to stir the cauldron with her today.” 

“Oh? Why’s that?” I shake my head. If she hasn’t told him then I don’t need to either. 

“Long story,” I answer. He shrugs and we both walk inside. Though it’s hard to differentiate between here and out there; the floor is entirely covered in soft grass. I take my shoes off and deposit them in a designated area marked by a square made of small piles of rocks. 

The vestibule is decorated with paintings done by Nelumbo. Most are portraits of the many people who have come through here. The depictions are enchanted, a moment of the subject’s time caught in an endless loop. Some smile for it, others are grimly worried about whatever ails them, and a few are flabbergasted by it. 

Nelumbo goes back to painting his latest piece, another portrait. I briefly wonder who he’s painting when I turn and see a young man smiling for Nelumbo. 

As almost always the vestibule is full of patiently waiting magicians. If they’re here they must have something serious, or they think it’s serious. Either way, the woman they’re here to see enters in.

“How nice of you to join us this millennium,” she immediately snaps at me. 

“That’s my fault, honey. I was showing her my latest piece,” Nelumbo covers for me.

Mentor Acacia can be…curt, with many people. But for Nelumbo? Her beloved? She has a much deeper ocean of patience. She gives him a warm smile that lights up her beautiful face. It’s brief, returning to a neutral expression. 

Mentor Acacia is a private woman by nature, not always divulging details of her personal affairs and such. It makes me wonder what they’re like together without eyes on them, is she a completely different woman? Is he different? What sort of world is born when the two of them are alone? It’s not for me to truly ever know, just an idle wondering. 

“We have our work, Hazel. Let’s get to it,” she says. 

Mentor Acacia teaches by example, rather than just have me study from texts and observe her, she splits her workload. I deal with cases she believes I can handle, only offering insight and guidance when necessary, and only stepping in to help if it’s a serious issue. 

We go around to her patients and help them out as need requires. Most aren’t anything too severe. One wizard had a ward, that he attempted to dispel himself, making him mix up his words and move his limbs in opposite directions he wanted. Amusing in a messed up sort of way, unfortunate but not life-threatening.

Compared to others, it’s a slow day.

Mentor Acacia has an extraordinary knowledge of all things magically medical. She’s able to identify the root cause of an issue quickly and work towards solving it immediately. She prioritizes a direct approach, rather than studying around the problem. This, coupled with her vast experience, is why she’s one of the most respected Witches in existence. 

When the room has been cleared she goes over her observations of my handiwork. We’re interrupted by Nelumbo. 

“Honey, I’m going out for some sun, see you in a bit!”

“See you in a bit,” Mentor Acacia responds. Nelumbo grabs a long piece of bark and sets it on the ground. The grass and earth beneath rise to meet it and move like waves in the ocean. He glides away on his bark board. 

Back to what we were discussing, Mentor Acacia says I performed admirably. Though she has a reputation for being very critical, she always gives credit where credit is due. 

We retreat into her study where my texts are waiting for me, right where I left them. 

Poring over them with just the two of us in here, I can’t help but wonder if we’re going to talk about anything that’s happened. 

She’s reading from a tome and writing down notes. Sensing I have something on my mind, she closes her text and looks at me. 

“Do you know why I keep my arm like this?”

She presents her magical prosthetic arm. It’s the chartreuse green of her aura, it’s her pure magical power taken shape and physical form. It’s not from an inability to replace the limb; indeed, she herself has helped others regrow lost or limp limbs. A process that can be visually disturbing and requires additional physical therapy, but well within the realm of possibility. She could also use a magical device to act as a limb that wouldn’t be so massively draining as this.

 Many wonder why she keeps her arm that way. And even more wonder how she lost the arm in the first place, but that’s a secret only she knows. 

“This serves as a reminder to myself. This is what happens when those who act carelessly are forced to reconcile with the consequences; and what you have to do to make up for their shortcomings,” she answers her own question. 

Even though she doesn’t directly say it, I know she’s referring to the scar on my back. My own painful reminder. I ball my hand into a tight fist at the memory. 

“We don’t have the luxury to act carelessly, Hazel,” she continues. “Wizards, Sorcerers, Enchanters, when they act carelessly they come to a Witch. When we act carelessly? They can die. That’s the reality of our roles. They get to make mistakes, they figure a Witch will always be there to fix them. And if we make one?” 

She doesn’t answer that question, instead, she stands up and puts away the tome she was reading from. 

“We’re the line between life and death for all magicians. Our work may not always be recognized for shaping the magical world around us, but it’s our work that keeps the ones who do alive. And that is the greater burden. The weight of this responsibility only crushes you if you have unsure footing.” 

She turns to face me, staring right into my eyes with her blood-red ones. 

“You’ll always need to stand strong in this life. No matter what reckless happenings occur, you have to stand on your own two feet against the repercussions of others’ actions. Or your own.” 

That isn’t what we need to talk about, but I intuit that this is the closest we’ll get. Even if I didn’t say a word. 

With her lecture done, she narrows her eyes for a moment. As if a thought came to her. 

“You’ve done well for today, but your mind is clearly occupied with other matters. Take the rest of the day and give some serious thought as to how you want to carry yourself in the future.”

I’m a little taken aback at her dismissal. I thought she’d want to keep a close eye on me after all this. Maybe she thinks I’ll simply obey her wishes since she’s my Mentor. That my ambitions are so aligned with hers that my destiny is already set in stone and she’s the best path for it. 

I stand up, trying not to let my defiant thoughts somehow project themselves in some way. 

She and I spend a great deal of time together, as apprentice and teacher. But we don’t know each other that well. We know enough, about the other’s capabilities, knowledge, and skill. But not enough as people. And perhaps that’s just because of the way she is. Maybe I’m to blame as well for not trying to connect more with her. 

She may think she knows me; what I’ll do. She might’ve known the Hazel from before. But who I am now, after all I’ve seen and done, isn’t that wide-eyed Witch anymore. With the knowledge of who and what’s out there, I can’t pretend I’m the same as I was. 

And I won’t act like it either. 

Mentor Acacia has taught me a myriad of things, including how to identify a problem. She’s shaped me into the magician I am today. I can’t think of a way to thank her for all I’ve learned. However, as it stands, she’s between me and Hollyhock. Right now, she’s the problem. And to whatever ends she’ll go to be an obstacle is what I’ll have to overcome. 

She looks me up and down. 

“You’ve put on a bit of weight,” she observes. With that, she leaves her study. 

My hands instinctively go to my stomach. It’s indeed a bit fuller than it used to be. 

The criticism stings a little but my resolve remains strong. 

As I head out I come across Mentor Acacia standing out of her abode looking off into the distance. She isn’t facing in my direction, but as I walk away she says,

“Tomorrow is that day.”

It stops me dead in my tracks. I know what day she’s talking about. 

With everything going on, I had almost forgotten, the fact that it took her reminding me makes the guilt all the more palpable in my throat. 

I turn my head as tears start to form in my eyes. I wipe them away with my sleeve and continue making my way home. 

That’s for tomorrow, it can wait.

When I’ve walked for a bit I turn to look back. 

Mentor Acacia is still standing there, not looking in my direction. Nelumbo returns on his board. They share a hug and a kiss before heading back inside. 

I turn forward and keep going. 

When I get home I make myself something to eat and use my scrying mirror to reach Barlow. I tell him about my encounter with Azalea and how I plan for her to help us. 

“Are you going to tell her the full story?” He asks. 

“Not right away,” I answer. “She’s more curious about the research task than the reason behind it. What we’re doing goes against a lot of our laws; I want to make sure she can handle the small stuff first.”

“Wow, you spend time with an assassin for a couple of weeks and you’re starting to sound like those crime bosses from those movies we’d watch.”

“It is what it is,” I reply. 

“Huh?”

“Nothing, I’ll let you know how it goes with her.” 

I end the conversation and contact Azalea, which is odd considering we live in the same place. She answers the call and quickly exclaims,

“I’LL Be RIGHT OVER!”

Within seconds I hear a knock at the door. I invite the Wizard in and briefly wonder how to ask her what I’m looking for. And how to let her fully understand that she’ll be an accomplice if we get caught. 

She eagerly waits for my word and I figure being straightforward is the best route. 

“I’m looking for any kind of records of magicians leaving Arcaniums,” I start. 

“Well, that would be in Sorcerers logs, they keep a-”

“Without permission,” I finish. “And didn’t leave on good terms.”

“OOOOOH!” She says, understanding better. 

“I’m especially curious about those pertaining to IronHenge. Anything major that would’ve caused a…grudge against our Arcanium.”

Azalea holds her chin in thought. 

“Nothing immediately comes to mind…but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something. But what could you possibly need this for?”

“I’ll be honest, I can’t tell you more about this until I’m certain you can help me. If you don’t want to, that’s fine; but having a Wizard on my side would certainly be a boon.”

“Well, apprentice Wizard,” she shyly corrects. 

“I’m an apprentice too. Doesn’t mean we can’t do things on our own.”

Azalea stares at me for a moment. 

“Whatever you have planned is turning the pages in my mind. I’m not sure I’d want to miss it…I’ll start looking up what I can, I should have something for you by tomorrow,” she says. 

“Tomorrow I’ll be busy, but…” I stop to ask myself if it’s worth the wait. 

“The day after will be fine,” I supply. 

Azalea nods and excitedly leaves. Her enthusiasm is admirable, I only hope it doesn’t get her caught. 

I spend the rest of the day studying cerebral magic more and more. Night falls and guilt creeps up my body. 

I get myself ready for bed, with what awaits me in the morning I can always tell it’ll be a dreamless sleep. 

But I was wrong. I dream of Hollyhock, we’re in her HQ. The assassin isn’t facing me, she’s talking to someone else. Another Bay Leaf I imagine. Only half of her face is visible, so it’s hard to gauge her expression. I’m fairly certain it’s a neutral one. 

I can’t hear what she’s saying, I wish she’d turn my way. No words can escape my mouth, my feet refuse to move. 

Yearning and guilt prickle all over my being as I’m trapped silently in this spot. 

 

I wake up, not feeling rested in the slightest. Sunlight shoots through my window to sear my eyes. 

I can never decide if the weather being nice on this day is callous cruelty or intentional kind on the universe’s part. Though I suppose with the climate control magic, it’s out of the universe’s hands. 

I bathe, prepare my hair in a braid crown, and get my special dress. 

It hangs by itself at the leftmost end of my wardrobe. There isn’t a single magical thing about it. 

She made the dress and it’s her favorite color: magenta. And that makes it special enough. 

It’s in a bouffant style, soft cotton, lovingly worn by myself and only touched by one other soul. 

As I put it on, I can’t help but notice that it’s a little tighter than usual; giving credence to Mentor Acacia’s rude observation. But it hardly matters. 

I pick up the flower pot that always sits on my desk. The plants in it have grown beautifully. The magenta color matches my dress. 

Walking outside, I head towards my yearly destination. 

It’s as if everyone knows what day it is, as no one approaches me to talk. It’s a solemn walk on such a nice day. 

I don’t have to hurry, and I have nothing else to do today; Mentor Acacia always gives me this day off. 

It’s roughly a 40-minute walk from my home to where I end up. 

The graveyard of IronHenge is a somber place, a staunch reminder that death comes for all, eventually. 

There are only a few others here today. Groundskeepers, I believe. There is a special spatial magic surrounding this place. Unlike the ones attached to homes, this isn’t a separate pocket dimension. A person could walk for hours in this graveyard without actually leaving it; acting like a treadmill of sorts. The only difference is new things can appear on this mill. The exact technique behind it escapes my knowledge and, frankly, eludes my interest. 

Such magic wasn’t needed for magicians for quite some time, given that we naturally live longer. But as civilizations advanced, we involved ourselves in the conflicts between them, and inevitable bloodshed led to gravestones. WW2 was the last major conflict to have magicians take part in, Arcaniums around the world developed this system to honor our dead without leaving our cities. The bodies of magicians that died outside of Arcaniums were recovered by a group of Wizards, Sorcerers, and Druids dedicated solely to the endeavor. 

When I first came here I was lost in the overwhelming number of gravestones. Now I know the exact number of steps needed to reach her. 

I stop in front of Floribunda’s grave. 

“Hello, Flora,” I say to her. She hated being called that by anyone other than me. I sit on the ground in front of her, placing the flowers of her namesake to the side. “It’s hard to believe that it’s been 8 years without you.”

The flowers I placed the year before have withered and dried. 

Her gravestone is simple. It has her name, of course, an etching of her face, and a dedication. I was closest to her, so I got to choose what was written.

Being her best friend, I knew anything about regret, sadness, or guilt would’ve annoyed her. It’s where my heart wanted to go after she died but I didn’t want to lay those feelings on her resting place. I struggled to find some words that would bear the weight of her life and what she meant to me. After countless tears and sleepless nights, I came up with the following,

“The time we spent together would’ve been magical in any life,” I read aloud. When we were young, we imagined life outside of IronHenge. We didn’t know much about it, but our imaginations ran wild. Flora could never make up her mind about whether she would be a business owner, a gladiator, or a computer genius. A lot of that was because of the old movies we watched; in retrospect, they weren’t the most realistic job opportunities for us. 

As we got older and more into our crafts, Flora and I talked less and less about leaving. But it was always in the back of my mind and I imagined it was somewhere in hers. It was her idea to pick a place at random to travel to. 

I let out a deep sigh. 

Every year since her death, I’ve visited and filled her in on what’s happened. Nothing was too mundane to share with her. And now? Now I have quite a bit to reveal. 

“Much to unpack,” I say more to myself than to Flora. “You better settle in.”

I start with what happened after my last visit. In comparison to recent events, it’s all quite dull. But I fill her in anyway. 

Then I get to leaving IronHenge and all the chaos that ensued. It’s more than a little strange to talk to her about Hollyhock; telling the woman I loved, about the woman I love. 

Flora and I were close, but never anything official. We talked about being with others, but would always gravitate to one another again. However, I always wanted more than that. 

I imagined when we were older and a little more tame we’d naturally settle into each other. I envisioned that so much I took it as a certainty. Never voicing my deeper feelings. 

I stop talking for a moment, considering the flowers I brought with me. Every year I grow some, clip them, and place them in front of her grave. This time, I brought the whole pot with me. 

I don’t know why but I decide to plant them here. Maybe I’m tired of the previous flowers just withering away, dead and gone. 

I start the transition from pot to earth and continue my tale. 

As I tell Flora the story of the fight with the Necromancer and how Mentor Acacia tracked me down, I remember Hollyhock's face. Seeing her lying there unconscious, brought back the memory of when Floribunda died. 

Those horrible moments are forever etched into my mind. 

It was an exciting time, we advanced from our neophyte statuses and were on the verge of becoming apprentices. Flora was searching around for the right Enchanter Mentor, while I was still undecided. This period between basic magical education and advanced apprenticeship was informally called “Window shopping spree,” by my generation of magicians. Someone got the term from a magazine or something. 

We were outside, sitting at an amphitheater that had become an unofficial eating area for neophytes when they were out from studies. When there were no shows, of course. There were dozens of others around, idly talking and eating, enjoying their brief respite from schooling. Flora and I were talking about which Mentors we were interested in. 

She had given me the dress I’m wearing today. It was a gift to celebrate our future learning. 

I had gone to a nearby bathroom to try it on. As I walked back my eyes locked onto Floribunda. I had thought about sharing my feelings for her that day. What better time than when we were free?

I still remember her face before it all went wrong. Her light brown skin and dark red hair shined in the sunlight. Her eyes were a turquoise blue that matched the jewelry she often wore. She had on one of her favorite dresses, as I understand the pattern on it was a traditional Navajo style. 

I gave a twirl to show off the dress. She gave a radiant smile…then her face twisted in pain. Her hand clutched her chest. 

My legs couldn’t carry me fast enough to catch her as she fell over. Others soon noticed and crowded around but I was kneeling over her already. She started coughing, harder and harder as she gripped her chest. Everyone there was frantically calling for help but the only thing I could hear was her coughs getting worse. 

Her free hand reached out to grab mine. As the color left her body I could see her veins turn a sickly blue all over. She coughed up blood, some splattered on my face but I didn’t react to it. All I could do was plead with her to get better. To overcome this. If I squeezed her hand any harder I might’ve broken it. 

Floribunda mustered what strength she had left to lean closer to me. She tried to say something to me, but the blood and bile in her mouth muddied her words.

My words failed me. 

My magic failed me. 

My knowledge failed me.

I failed her. 

So I watched the life drain from her eyes, their movement no longer erratic, her chest stopped rising and falling, and her hands went limp. Blood leaking from her mouth was the only thing moving. 

When help arrived it was far too late. She was gone, forever. That fact didn’t make me leave her side, neither did the pleas of whoever was talking to me. It took three sorcerers’ entanglement spells and two witches sedating me to tear me away from her body.  It was the second time I felt that fire burn deep within me. The third was when the Necromancer held the knife over Hollyhock. 

I later learned that whatever killed Floribunda was exceptionally deadly, it had liquefied her organs. The fact that she survived that long was nothing short of a miracle itself. At least, that’s what the Witch who inspected her said. Nothing about it felt like a miracle to me. I wasn’t the Witch I am now, but even if I was, I’m not sure if I could’ve helped. No one had seen anything like it before, and I still haven’t learned anything close to it; even with Mentor Acacia’s help

There was an investigation into the matter. Everyone there was interrogated, myself included. 

Nothing turned up, nothing. All the Soothsayers, Sorcerers, and other magicians looked into this and nothing was found. 

I was almost held in containment for not letting it go and trying to investigate it myself. 

It was two months before I dropped the matter. 

In truth, I was searching for answers and had collapsed from exhaustion in public. I woke up three days later and was asked firmly to let it lie or face punishment. 

I couldn’t even give a proper answer to the Sorcerer that told me to stop. I covered my eyes with my arms and cried. 

How could I just let it go? Just accept that my best friend, the woman I loved, died in front of me? And nothing could be found out? Why did I have to accept that? Why?! How could anyone accept that? 

When I was released from the infirmary, I received a letter from Mentor Acacia. She wanted me to learn from her. I couldn’t agree fast enough. I figured if anyone could help me, she could. And here we are now. 

I finished planting the flowers before  Floribunda’s gravestone. I stare at my dirt-covered hands. These hands keep letting the women I love go. 

Hollyhock’s pain stricken face shares space with Floribunda’s dying one in my mind. 

“I’m letting it happen again,” I say aloud. The rage building in me quickly turns into disgust at the idea. 

Hollyhock isn’t dead yet. 

She can’t be dead. She just can’t. 

But she is in pain and what’s been done to her can ruin her life. This might kill her if I can’t fix it. 

My fingers curl in the earth beneath me as despair takes over my body again. 

“I can’t let this happen again. I won’t let it happen again, Flora!” 

It’s almost a kind of anger that takes my voice as I shout at the gravestone,

“I WON’T IT HAPPEN AGAIN! I JUST…CAN’T!”

For the first time during any of my visits, it starts to rain. Heavy sheets pour down on me as if to water the flowers I just planted. The rain takes my tears as well. 

I thought I had reached my limit of crying for a lifetime, but obviously, I was wrong. I can't find the strength to compose myself. I’ve never cried in front of her grave, but I know she’ll understand why now. 

“I won’t let it happen again…I promise,” I manage to get out between sobs. 

Ch. 24 End.