Flower Bed
The place he's chosen to sit for a while is bright with sunshine, with splashes of colourful flowers as far as the eye can see, little petals and blades of grass resting gratefully against his leg as though it is some great privilege, the birds singing sweetly as though they are blessed to have him as audience. The breeze whispers through the oak tree he leans against, showering blossoms into his hair.
The little grove is beautiful and bright and he compared to it is like a shadowy, gloomy blotch, ill-fitting in such cheerful scenery, casting shadows and darkness. He doesn't even let the sun tough his face. He doesn't even seem to revel in the spring breeze, or watch the bounding of small rabbits.
The girl whose come to look for him (and were it not her, surely there would be another, there is always another) smiles brightly when she catches a glimpse of him. "D!" and she runs ecstatically to his side, plopping down in the grass beside him without his consent, peering into his face beneath the shadow of his hat. Her eyes fill with wonder, adoration, but he doesn't look at her.
"Tired?" she asks with a smile. Some part of her swoons when he doesn't answer, and wonders silently to herself why she finds that so attractive. It doesn't occur to her that it's because he's not human. He cuts rough needles of wood with his nails, storing them in a little pile beside him, and she's content to watch his fingers move and listen ever so carefully for the breath that she can feel but cannot hear. She's content to feel the warmth of the sun on her back, hear his cloak rustle as he moves. She, mean while, twists the stems of flowers in her fingers, occasionally glancing happily into his face.
He doesn't tell her that she's as predictable as dozens, hundreds of other girls that he's met before, all of them with feelings for him. He doesn't tell her that it's better if she feels nothing for him, because he will leave. Some part of him, some soft human part of him, pities her, and doesn't want to spoil the dreams she has of someday bearing his children, of living with him in peace, of making him smile. He lets her sit with him and enjoy his company.
He lets her imagine.
When he leaves again, in whatever direction suits him best, never looking back, the time they spent together in the flower bed, the sun warm and the breeze gentle and the grass soft, will be her most precious memory.