He had always loved flowers.
Perhaps it was the sweet, gentle aroma they emitted that would almost overwhelm his senses on breezy, calm days as they swayed back and forth in the wind. It may have very well been the vivid colors of some of them; bright, fiery oranges and crimson in the summer, mellow amethysts and pearl whites in the spring. Such great care tempered with childish innocence would go into picking them, gathering just the right ones up into a small bouquet. How warm he would then feel when she would beam, overjoyed at the bunches of violet and ruby, watching her pluck one from the posy and place it in her hair, laughing and scooping him up in a hug.
Even when she would later throw them into the fire, he would be happy. And, watching her deeply inhale the sweet fragrance whilst the flames slowly consumed the blossoms, gazing dreamily at the intricate spirals she would then draw by the hearth side as though she guided by some unseen force of nature—
For her. Always.
He would smile.
Swift, skillful hands mashed the amethyst petals into a fine dust, brown eyes peering down at the bowl through the lenses of alien-looking magnification spectacles. Placing the grinder aside, he gathered the basin up and, with the cautionary manner of a scientist, sprinkled the powder into the boiling water of the glass beaker. Then he sat back, adjusting his glasses and picking up his ledger to commence his notation.
Not once did Ichabod pay any mind to the perfumed scent that drifted about the dreary, dusty apartment; all that remained of the flowers as the ashes burned and bubbled, dissolving completely within seconds.