[ Flowers. In silent, silvered hail. So light that the jagged boughs of their trees don't weigh with the ruin of their blooming. In his hand, the paper's edge runs red with blood. In his desire's conjuring, pink seeps into white. Blood enough for two when Subaru considers the man bearing witness to this tranquil rot of his. Lost like him? Simply a traveler? Here, it's impossible to know, not that he supposes it matters. His gaze falls to him and the illusory petals that welcome him as if he also belongs, then back to the trees. ]

No. I've seen this before.

[ It lays heavy in his mouth, unspoken: many times before. ]

Look long enough, and you'll see the corpse beneath the tree. I was called because I wondered if she suffered to turn the blossoms pink.

[ A memory lost and then unveiled. ]

What flower is right to you?