The grove was filled with color and motion. The leaves and flowers of the trees were of every color imaginable, a riotous and chaotic burst, and they rustled as they tumbled from the branches to the ground, drifting and falling one by one.
“It’s amazing,” Sandra murmured. Her feet crunched on the forest floor.
“Your kind do not often come here,” said her guide.
“What are they?”
“The trees? Every scrap of happiness, every beautiful thing grows into a blossom. When it dies, it falls to the forest floor.”
Sandra paused and stared upward. Around them, petals dropped like rain.
Tapson on Tales and Totalitarianism
5 hours ago