She walked in a sea of botany, scraping her fingernails against the chrysanthemums. She stepped quietly, murmuring a song she couldn’t quite remember. She watered the plants, melancholy melody burbling in her throat.
It was Wednesday. She loped across the stone floor; languidly, lazily. She liked Wednesdays. She finished with the plants and sat, propping her feet on the white wire furniture. It was warm, though the wind rattled at the panes. The sun came through the glass ceiling. It was late afternoon, early autumn. Brown leaves danced outside, pressing against the walls, itching to join their verdant brethren. She wore a blue dress, neat and proper, trimmed with black lace. The plants curled in tendrils, sprouting floor to ceiling, burgeoning in the colors of a falsely created spring.
The leaves arched around her face, long and lush and glittering with water droplets in sunlight. Outside, the wind bustled and blew. Inside, a girl hummed, quietly, reading a book.

She put the book down, running fingers through her hair. It had gotten too long; she figured on a haircut in a few days. She settled back into her chair, plants whispering in her ears. Shifting slightly, she yawned. Her eyes drifted shut in sleep. The glass panes crackled as the wind blew.

She heard a knock. Three smart raps against a wooden door. Her eyes opened to shards of glass falling from above. The sky had gone dark and wet, raining and storming and swirling above her. Her greenhouse, her verdant palace, shattered. The air crackled with static, snapping and biting at her ankles. She stooped to grab her book, but the dust of disintegrated pages merely fell through her fingers. The plants withered and died as the wind whipped through them. She tried to run, but she fell. Fingernails breaking in a clawed attempt to keep her to the ground, she was torn away by the wind, hair swirling up in a tornado-like plume. She cried for help, tears of anguish falling from her eyes.


She smacked her head into a wooden table as she woke, hair tangled and coiled down her back. She heard the knock again, four raps this time. She wiped the dream from her eyes and stood up, slipping on a pile of unwashed clothing. She ran to the door, sliding past piles of takeout and dirty dishes. She had left the TV on. A blonde warbled away behind her, speaking of nothing.

She reached the door, yanking it open. His hand was poised to knock again, but he lowered it sheepishly to his pockets. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes were dark. His hair dripped water onto the welcome mat. It had started raining.