Each spring, she woke inside a flower.
She never remembered how she got there...only that it was soft, and light, and quiet.
The world around her drifted softly.
Each day, something would vanish: a flower, a footprint, a whisper.
Each day, something pure would return: a petal, a breeze, a shadow in the shape of someone she remembered.
One day, she whispered to the rabbit:
“Will I stay this time?”
He didn’t answer. But she already knew.
No one stays. Not like that.
But the pure things...the gentle things...they don’t really disappear.
They do not vanish without a trace.
Some things never leave: like childhood, like love that was once real, like a memory, or a dream sincerely held.
Blossoms fall, but they return each spring.
Paper boats dissolve, but the hands that folded them will remember.
Some forms return...transformed, reborn, or simply remembered.
They pass like a soft rain,
and then they return, quietly.
So the girl closed her eyes,
and waited for the flower to open again.
