FLORAL
The air smells like firelilies. That strong scent is the hallmark of the cusp of steadily approaching summertime. Any citizen of Caldera knows that quite well.
Only a handful of years have passed since the end of the Hundred Year War. Azula sits on her windowseat and stares out through the window at a city that seems unchanged on the surface. The smells have not shifted, no buildings edited or even weathered by time.
But it is all different.
In her opinion, only one thing is different in a good way: the young woman lying against her, back of her head on Azula's shoulder blade, eyes closed, asleep like a cat in the sunlight.
Azula unravels her braid, taking care not to pull or prod or wake her up.
Her hair smells like flowers too, still damp from a bath or a swim or whatever nonsense girls like Ty Lee do on days like these.
Ty Lee stirs.
She is awake.
But she will never tell.
