This is the last story in the collection. It all went by faster than I expected, even though I was working on all of these stories up until last week. I have a lot more to say about the collection as a whole in the tenth chapter which has also been posted today. Lastly, if you haven't already, Jay's story was posted last week in replacement of the previous notice. Enjoy!
snowdrops
Zane's fingers glide across frost-covered branches, delicate crystals of ice falling to the fresh snow beneath. He steps away from the shrub as a lonely chickadee lands on a nearby branch and begins to peck at the winterberries.
"Hello, my friend," he says kindly. The bird raises its head with a jagged motion and crisply chirps in reply before resuming its snack. Zane slowly reaches over to a pallet of snow piled upon the seat of a garden bench. He holds the white precipitation in his bare hands, grains of ice glittering in the light of the rising sun.
"Zane?" A familiar voice calls, followed by the heavy shuffling of footsteps in the snow. "There you are." An elderly man bundled in two overcoats emerges from behind a wide birch tree. He frowns in response to Zane's cupped hands. "Where are your gloves, Zane?"
Zane remains still, smiling softly at his father. "I left them inside."
"But don't you feel how cold it is?" His father shivers despite the warmth his numerous layers of winter clothes should have been bringing him.
"I could never be cold, Father," Zane says with reassurance. He drops to his knees and places the snow on the ground and begins to smooth it over with his hands.
With some difficulty, his father bends down next to him and gently clears away the snow. "Look." He gestures to something small, propping it up with a gloved finger.
Zane looks over and beholds a white flower, delicately drooping under the weight of itself. "How can it survive in this cold?" he asks, curiosity shining in his blue eyes.
"It's special, much like you are," his father replies, carefully turning the flower to its side for a better look.
"Like me?" Zane replies, surprised. He was expecting the name of the flower or a lesson in botany, not so vague of an answer.
His father explains. "The snowdrop is one of a few flowers that can thrive in the cold of winter. It keeps itself hidden in the snow until its ready to be seen. Then it bravely pushes upward from the frozen ground and blossoms. Even those passing by cannot overlook how special it is."
"It is special because it is different from other flowers?" Zane tries to grasp what exactly his father is trying to teach him. Perhaps, this was one of his lessons about life. But a lesson from a flower?
"That is one way to look at it. But—" His father pushes aside a little more snow to reveal a green bud standing tall despite the crystals sprinkled upon its every aspect. "When its time comes to an end in spring, it shares its life, so more of its kind can grow next winter." His father sighs. "It's beautiful how nature reflects such selflessness. If only it were also the essence of humanity."
His father rubs his numbing hands together and announces, "I think it's time for me to go back inside." He stands up and extends a hand to Zane.
But Zane is mesmerized by the snowdrop. He silently contemplates his father's statements. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves, one of the first phrases he ever heard. This desire already requires a level of selflessness that Zane can't imagine not possessing. But death is an entirely different matter…
Yet, if one day, such a monumental sacrifice was required—he hopes his heart is as beautiful as the snowdrop.
…
PIXAL's hand brushes across the tall, stalks of grass that sway gently in the breeze. Zane walks beside her, his fingers intertwined with hers. There isn't a step they take without seeing a wildflower blooming at their feet.
"What was it that you wanted to show me?" PIXAL asks as the wind further ruffles the landscape. She smooths down her floral sundress with one hand in response.
Zane replies, "I wonder if there are snowdrops this time of year."
"That would be highly unlikely. The end of spring is near." Zane sighs. PIXAL looks over and senses his disappointment. She takes a breath and says, "They will be here again next winter."
He squeezes her hand and says, "I know." They walk without a word, listening to the humming of the insects and the rushing of the wind. Upon reaching a clearing with shorter grass, they sit in the shade of a magnolia. Pale pink petals fall around their place of rest.
PIXAL holds out her hand to catch the petals. She turns them over, giving Zane the chance to analyze them as well. "Fascinating," she expresses in light of its beauty. "Perhaps, we should gather a few wildflowers to decorate the Monastery. I am sure the others will appreciate it."
Zane agrees, and they spend the rest of the afternoon curating their arrangements. PIXAL gathers lavender mountain laurels, delicate spring beauties, and golden clover blooms before following Zane's footsteps further into the hills. He had wandered ahead while she was making her choice of wildflowers.
She finds him knelt alongside a bare patch of grass, propping up something small with a titanium finger. Tightly grasping her arrangement, PIXAL looks up to the sky and frowns slightly. "The sun is setting. We should return." She turns toward Zane. "Have you finished?"
He doesn't offer her a direct answer. "There is still one more," he replies with a gentle smile.
"What are you referring to?" PIXAL asks as she bends down beside him.
He carefully moves his hands away. There resting among the grass is a lonely snowdrop, bereft of all its leaves. Regardless, PIXAL is able to consider its beauty, even as it approaches death.
"This is highly unusual," she comments. "Snowdrops typically wither in mid-spring. It is nearly summertime."
"It's special. When spring arrives, it doesn't die in vain. Next winter, others of its kind will grow from its sacrifice. My father believed it is a beautiful example of selflessness." Zane cradles the dying flower in his hands and whispers to himself. "He called me a snowdrop."
PIXAL nods in understanding. Special. Sacrifice. Selflessness. This must be what it means to be truly human. They understand these concepts better than most. Zane seems to have read her thoughts. He stands up and extends his hand. She glances back at the noble snowdrop and takes Zane's hand.
The sky glows yellow-orange, a veneer of golden rays settling upon the field. They find their way back to the magnolia tree where Zane stops to put a flower in PIXAL's pulled up hair. Somehow, the pink flower makes her silver hair seem softer than the essence of spring. Walking hand in hand, they find their way home.