He's been doing this job and nothing else for so long he's forgotten how to be anything else.

Once upon a time, Morgan was a man, a son, a husband, a father, a mean saxaphone player, and an alright pool player.

A long time ago (and in a life time far away) Morgan picked flowers for his mom on Mothers Day, before he was old enough to have a paying job and (proud enough to insist that he could) buy it from a store.

The day he got married his wife wove little white flowers into her hair. The day of her funeral he placed a single white rose on her casket.

He's been fighting the same monsters who killed her for a hundred years, maybe a thousand. The faces change, but the root is the same one, growing anew every spring from black earth.

He'd been in full blown as a young man, but the people (and ideals) he'd lost had been petals wilting, dying, falling off and rotting. He feels like potpourii - dried pieces of what was once a beautiful life.

Morgan was a man once. Now he's just the job; a gardner pulling weeds. Morgan wishes he could still see the flowers he's pruning this garden for.