Author's Notes: I know there are other stories to do, but I could not resist.
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It was a cold, sunny day in Russia. The day had just begun, and dew was still glimmering on the leaves.
And with every morning, the plants were waking up.
The spirits of the flowers were opening their petals, and the keepers of the gardens were preparing to tend to their flowers.
One sunflower spirit in particular was awakening to a very sad day.
Though he did not know it.
For you see, the date was September 30th, 1942.
Now, the spirits of the flowers do not see a conflict between countries, they do not see the victories, they do not see the glory.
They see the poison of war.
They feel it seep into their soil.
They taste the pain, the fire, the blood.
And our little sunflower spirit experienced this firsthand.
His keeper of the garden was dead.
The little sunflower spirit stood beside her body, still warm, watching her. Waiting for her to wake up.
She never did.
After several years, the little sunflower grew up, into an adult sunflower spirit.
But he did not mingle with the other flowers. Without his keeper of the garden, he forgot the language of the tamed plants. The sunflower spirit only knew the tongue of the wildflowers that lived scattered across the forests and plains of Russia.
He was lost.
And he was alone.
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Author's Notes: Not much to say here.
Uh.
Sup.