Fractured Bloom

The chipped porcelain of memory is all that remains, isn't it? Smooth edges worn away by time, leaving behind only fragments. He touched my face like a sculptor rediscovering his clay – tentative at first, then with a growing certainty.
Rain always felt like this town’s way of remembering too; relentless and cold. But his hands… they were warm against the chill that had settled deep within me. A slow thaw.
He said he liked the cracks, how light found its way through them, illuminating the patterns underneath. No one has ever looked at my broken pieces with such quiet reverence.
I hadn't realized how starved I was for a gentle touch, a kind word, until they were offered to me. A silent promise whispered in the space between breaths—a fragile bloom pushing its way through fractured earth.

Editor: Lane Whisperer