Adria, a troubled girl who seeks more from the world, finds herself trapped in the past when she drifts off to sleep-a familiar world from a thousand years ago proves the tales of her village were true, discovering personified human flowers with the...
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Folk tales of what used to be, where the forest's grass was verdant, flowers blossomed in every corner, tree leaves danced to the chorus of the wind, and birds sang their own unique tunes. It all seems impossible now, especially how the world seems so dull. Anytime I hear of these tales, I yearn for a happier ending. But how do I know if those old folks are even telling the truth? Everyone seems to talk about that all the time, like they're bound to the 'so-called past'; it makes me think it's something they made up to comfort themselves... How could this place ever be colorful? Even if that world was real once, it hasn't existed for a long time—hundreds of years passed and they have done nothing to fix it but dwell in their sorrows. The blooms might as well be considered a myth because of the on going drought that has covered these plains, and I never hear a melody from a bird, not even a chirp.
As I lie by the fields of grass, dry and stiff, I think of my surroundings. It may seem dead, these secluded areas from the village, but they calm me; the psithurism of the trees make me actually think to myself for once...though I wish it felt more welcoming. Engrossed in my thoughts I paused; something brushed against me. Looking down, I discover a centipede crawling towards me, seeking warmth. "Are you angry at the world too?" I murmur, wondering. I let the centipede crawl on my arm, not caring that much as I lifted the creature up—it squirmed, finding comfort in my sleeve. "Me too... it all seems gloomy, don't it?" I found a darker area so the centipede could be in solitude, digging in the soil as if it were hiding from the world. In a way it made me feel seen—at least I wasn't the only one who didn't want to be included in the world's crazy talk. Closing my eyes, I lean on a tree, finding myself drifting off, dreaming of new beginnings.
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I feel as if my dreams are being replayed over and over; recently, I keep having recurring visions where I'm in the plains like usual, but something is off—it's like I have to solve pieces of a puzzle, yet I never get enough time to complete it. Each part is different from one another—different pictures that don't align...but not this time; now it's different—it's as if I have more control, like it's not just a haze of a memory waiting to be forgotten. It's sharp and mesmerizing, so I cling on to these fragments, a shattered picture waiting to be mended once again. I won't let this puzzle slip from my mind, not this time. Piece after piece I look at my handiwork; the puzzle consists of vivid colors, seemingly a serene landscape where everything seems aglow with radiant energy. "Wish places like these weren't just in paintings and pictures..."
