#flowersandcigs

Different petals stitched together with fibers of their hair are planted neatly in a small clay pot on the ground. Flowers of mismatched colors look harmonious enough together. Each of them sings contradicting tunes, building up off one another.

Timir doesn’t think they hate taking care of newborns, but the hum sounds so incoherent that they wonder how long till it stops being so.

…

The vines part as they walk under them to enter the infirmary — "Thank you.", they reply.

The hopelessness and helplessness crawl onto them as quickly as their brain would allow.

Pots and planter boxes in the gray room look pale in the morning light — greens and yellows almost white. Sick plants cry out silently. The pleas almost don’t reach their mind. It must take so much for them just to be. Timir feels the soft surface of a leaf and runs fingers down along their friend.

“Good morning.” They offer, and the plants don’t answer, but they know they appreciate the attempt.

For as long as Timir could remember they had been cursed with power and knowledge. To be aware of something means that taking no action becomes a form of reaction, one which they physically could not stand. They let anyone who needed it graft onto their soul, and they would take them along, all to be left in the end.

They aren't lonely — parting is only a result of meeting, and if they are to be honest, the farewells usually relieved them.

But before then, they have to keep promises they never made.

Spirals of oranges and greens snake out from them into the plants. Small sounds of "thank you" reverberate inside their head as the plants wake and shake in appreciation.

"You're welcome." The smile doesn't reach their eyes, but it is genuine.

Timir breathes in the faint smell of life; and as they walk back out under the parted vines, white-haired and withered, a sense of familiar defeat blooms in their lungs.

It takes so much for me, too.

…

Sunlight reflects off a mirror, and they see a pair of hollow eyes staring back.

Sometimes they'd wonder — would anyone back home share the same look. They know that's just dramatic and naive. Living outside the city doesn't mean there is no draught, but the isolation is suffocating and the neons whir loud enough to keep them from sleeping at night.

And the sky is so gray.

Timir looks at the lifeless petals lying scattered on the table, waiting — but there aren't enough yet. They look out the window and think of the rain.

9 hours left till 5 PM.