We talked about simple things: botany class, as it was a great elective for improving mental health, the garden that seemed to be enchanted by the particles of mana that made it glow softly, and even the sweets she used to bake at home. Her voice grew softer as she spoke. At first, she seemed restrained, nervous, as if afraid of the sound of her own words, but little by little, she gained confidence. Her amethyst eyes lit up with a mixture of sadness and joy as she told how her grandmother, an ancient, had taught her to listen to the hearts of plants.
Time vanished before we realized it, like a sandstorm unraveling as the wind sped by. We chatted, sitting on a small, beautifully decorated limestone bench, partially covered by a vine of leaves that made it look like something straight out of a fairy tale. The flowers in the garden—blue roses that only bloom during full moon nights—slowly turned toward the small fountain that stood near us.
