Night was rolling into the scarlet sunset, scattering stars in its wake. There was no light to be seen from the windows of the grand house on the corner of Glen Street. And though its curtains were not drawn, Night, as he swept by, lent the building an appearance of shutteredness, of seclusion from the rest of the neighborhood. By day, it was nothing more than a house – grand but no grander than the rest on the block. By night, only the woman knew what it held.

The woman stood across the street from the house. Wrinkles lined her face, and her back was bent nearly double. A rope of white hair hung down to her knees. She was watching. Watching the house on the corner of Glen Street. There was no wind in the trees, not one prowling house cat in sight. Nothing moved. The very air seemed to hold its breath, nature stopping and waiting and watching, not knowing for whom or what it paused. The woman stood in silence. The world stood in silence.

When, at last, it seemed as though stillness had draped herself so comfortably she would never rise, in the corner of one of the flower beds before the house, something moved. There was nothing there save the withered carcass of a dead, petal-less peony. Its stem was brown and brittle, and its head leaned to one side, long since stripped of all beauty. But from that stem came the movement. And small as it was, the woman’s eyes locked onto it immediately. It was a leaf, fresh green and glossy, burgeoning from the dead stem. It uncurled slowly, letting the moonlight enhance each unfurling curve, flawless and impossible.

The woman took a step. She left the curb. By the time she reached the end of the street, another leaf was uncurling, this time faster. Before her eyes, a third leaf was born, and a fourth, each one faster than the last.

The woman quickened her pace. A dark, youthful green hue rose up the stem, infiltrating the head, which exploded into brilliant, sunny yellows. Time for the finale. The head blossomed, shooting out long velveteen petals in the richest shade of magenta.

The moonlight seemed to intensify around the peony, enfolding it in jets of gold as it stood radiating life, lush and fragrant, with a nearly celestial quality. As the woman approached it, the air around the flower seemed to throb and the unearthly jets of golden light popped and sparkled like ethereal fireworks. Slowly and creakily, the woman stooped. She picked the peony and, rising with difficulty, tucked it behind her ear. A long sigh escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, looking as though after years of wandering, she had finally come home.

Around her, the lights faded. The pulsing acceleration of the air disappeared as though it had never been. Stillness once again wrapped her languid fingers around the house on the corner of Glen Street.

Then the woman opened her eyes. Gone were the twin chocolate hued drops that had been her irises; in their stead beamed two luminescent balls of the same golden light that had been frolicking through the atmosphere not a moment ago. They were not liquidly mild, nor were they fire and brimstone. There was only timelessness in their depths, images of wars fought centuries ago, of children birthed and long since passed on. Images of loves and hates, tears and smiles stretching back eons, and more than anything else, an understanding. An understanding of the infinite.