She stood beneath the wisteria, sword planted in the earth, trembling.
Petals drifted around her like falling memories. Her tears slid down her cheeks, silent, steady.
This garden had once been her motherβs. A place of laughter, not blood. Now, all that remained was the scent of flowers and the weight of a blade.
She criedβnot for the fight sheβd won, but for the girl sheβd lost.
Above, the wisteria wept with her.
Love, Erinthul