Deep in the grand garden, far from the glittering ballroom and its suffocating noise, little Ellis sits beneath an old oak tree. Its branches stretch wide above him, casting a shifting patchwork of sunlight and shadow across his small frame. The trunk is rough against his back, warmed by the afternoon sun.
His legs are stretched out across the grass, cool and damp beneath his palms. His favorite book rests open in his lap—Tale of Nine Flowers. Bound in fine leather with gilded page edges, it remains impeccably cared for despite the countless times he has read it.
He knows every word by heart, every twist of the story, every quiet moment of its gentle magic. But he turns the pages anyway, tracing the familiar rhythm with his eyes, letting the comfort of the familiar settle over him like a blanket.
The throbbing in his head has finally quieted. The bleeding has stopped. He dabs the handkerchief—now stiff with dried, rust-colored blood—against his nose one last time, then lowers it.
