Page 127 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
Nora peeled it back carefully and opened the box.
Inside:
A folded piece of lined paper, brittle at the edges.
A cassette tape in a cracked plastic case.
A photo she didn’t remember ever taking: her, age maybe nine, barefoot in the wash, a feather tucked behind her ear.
A pressed flower, still red despite the years, tied with a thread of red string.
She lifted the note first.
It was her grandfather’s handwriting.
Neat, familiar in the same way a scar is.
She’s the bloom.
He’s the storm.
Together, they root.
Nora didn’t realize she was crying until Gloria handed her a napkin that smelled like lemon pie and cigarette smoke.
“He wrote it the day after your twelfth birthday,” Gloria said quietly. “Told me to hold onto it. Said I’d know when it was time. Typical Vale behavior… always leaving me with instructions and no damn timelines.”
Nora wiped her face and nodded, smiling through watery eyes.
They sat in silence for a minute. Two.
Then Gloria said, “You look different.”
“I feel different.”
Gloria smiled. “You glow different now. That’s how I know it stuck.”
Inside the house, Asher opened the door, barefoot, shirt half-buttoned.
He looked at Gloria, and Gloria looked at him, and neither said anything for a long time.
Then Gloria nodded once, like an old agreement had been satisfied. “You’re softer than I expected.”
“I get that a lot,” Asher said.
Nora let out a startled laugh.
“Don’t encourage him,” she muttered.
But her fingers closed around the paper again.
She’s the bloom. He’s the storm. Together, they root.
Gloria kissed Nora on the cheek, glanced at the sky, and left, with promises of a return with some pie in the near future.
***
They didn’t tell the town anything.
