13
I had a nightmare.
The dream was full of Lucas collapsing at my
grave, his white sleeves stained red with
blood.
When I woke up, his side of the bed was
empty.
Where was Lucas?
My heart pounded; I didn’t even have time to
put on my shoes and went to find him
barefoot.
I heard strange noises from the rooftop.
My heart sank, and I ran upstairs quickly.
I pushed open the balcony door.
“Lucas?”
“Awake?”
Lucas was wearing an apron and gloves; thick
gardening mats were spread on the ground.
He looked up from a row of colorful flowers.
Every single one was my favorite.
The ones I used to grow in my apartment.
After I was imprisoned in the mental hospital,
no one took care of them.
Lucas tried his best but couldn’t save them.
Now, he was growing flowers?
“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
Lucas frowned, took off his gloves, and got
up to get me shoes.
Then he brought a small stool and placed it
beside him, gesturing for me to sit.
“Why did you start planting flowers?”
His pale, slender fingers scooped up a
handful of soil, burying it in the flowerpot,
compacting it, and watering it.
The pink rose petals were covered with
sparkling water droplets, luscious and
tempting.
“When the balcony is full of flowers, I can
take lots of beautiful photos of you.”
That scene would be beautiful.
Lucas, we will have that day.
