The garden collapsed as it witnessed the orchid bloom. The hues were mesmerizing, intact, and powerful, as if deep shades of bloodshed had been injected into it. For a moment, it felt like a downtrodden, dilapidated, diluted version of frondescence was representing its last chance of survival.

This magnified survival mode was hypnotic, yet expressionless. It was majestic, yet blurred the vision in a cold sense. Perhaps, in actuality the garden that bloomed it, was not nourishing it but asking to be a remnant of a summation on which the orchid once stood.

-Rishika Rathore