It was a warm day in the manor. The air smelled of peony and

  honeysuckle. Sol stood at his window, watching his mother tend to her garden as

  she always did. Her wide-brimmed white hat and gloves were, as ever,

  inexplicably spotless.

  He buttoned his silk shirt, took a piece of liquorice root to chew on, and stepped outside. He stood behind her for several seconds before

  she noticed—entirely absorbed in the flowers.

  “Sol, come here,” she said at last, smiling warmly and

  beckoning him closer.

  He knelt beside her. She placed a bougainvillea gently into

  his hand. As he turned it, a small thorn bit into his finger.

  “Ah—”

  He dropped it. Petals scattered across the soil.

  “Mom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly.

  “It’s fine, Sol.”

  She picked the flower up, inspecting the fallen petals

  without looking at him.

  “It was going to die sooner or later. I’m glad we

  experienced it together.”

  Sol frowned.

  “Why do you spend so much time with them,” he asked, “if

  they’re just going to die? You work so hard, and then they wither. Isn’t it a

  waste?”

  She continued turning the broken bloom between her fingers.

  “Because they won’t last,” she said. “That’s what makes them

  beautiful. Not everyone will see this flower, or touch it, or breathe it in. It

  existed for us. Its scent, its petals, the sting of its thorn.”

  She paused.

  “If it waited forever for someone else, how would it be

  special?”

  She plucked the remaining petals free.

  “I heard you reading yesterday,” she added quietly. “The

  story of Verez. You know how it ends, don’t you?”

  Sol swallowed.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Right,” he said.

  “So,” she said after

  a moment, “what do you think of Verez? In its golden days—would you have liked

  to visit?”

  “Of course,” Sol replied, as if the answer were obvious.

  She giggled, brushing her finger against the flower and tasting the sugary nectar.

  “Well, that time is long gone now,” she said. “Was it

  wasted?”

  Sol hesitated. “No.”

  “Would you still visit,” she pressed gently, “knowing it was

  temporary?”

  “Of course, Mom. Verez was amazing.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Then do you think their time in the sun was wasted?”

  Sol thought. “No… but it would be better if they always

  shined. If they never faltered.”

  She plucked a honeysuckle from the vine.

  “If Verez had always been wonderful,” she said, “there would

  have been no golden age. It would have been normal. Astonishing at

  first—trivial after enough time.”

  Sol fell quiet.

  “Brother, come on—look!” his younger brother called from

  across the garden.

  “Go on,” his mother whispered, tapping his nose lightly.

  “Don’t keep him waiting.”

  “He’ll cherish it more if I do,” Sol said, a little too

  proudly.

  She smiled.

  He gets up and runs toward his brother, kicking dirt onto his mother’s white hat.

  “Read us this story.” The young boy pulls out a book, plain and leathery—a thick tome. Its contents are indecipherable, certainly not in any tongue known to Sol. He takes it, confused, and flicks through the pages: lines and lines of writing. He sees one word he can read among them—“Sol.”

  His father quickly snatches the book from him, so fast it gives him a burn on his palm.

  “I told you never to go anywhere near my chambers,” he reprimands the children.

  Their lips quiver. He sighs, kneels, and pats them on the shoulder. “If you’re good, I’ll have us all go visit the baby alien in Verez.” Their sadness is instantly quelled.

  He turns to Sol. “And this reminds me—come with me.”

  He grabs his hand, and they walk out of the house, past their mother, who wears a look of wistful sorrow. She avoids eye contact, staring down at the flowers as she twirls one between her fingers.

  Sol and his father climb into a carriage, the book resting on his lap, and they ride far into the night. A dozen hours pass. His father says nothing in response to his inquiries except, “Wait and see.”

  Rain patters against the window, hypnotic, as the moon hangs overhead, peering into the carriage. The horses come to a sudden halt.

  Sol steps out of the carriage with his father’s assistance. They walk toward an opening in the ground, sealed by an obsidian latch. Dozens of children and a few parents are already present. The place is illuminated by candlelight; wax fills the air as it drips to the ground, forming long, hardened piles.

  “He’s here,” a voice calls out.

  Sol’s father seats him before stepping up to the altar. He flicks through the pages—unbeknownst to him, the word Sol, once present, is now gone. His father intends for him to witness this rite, something intriguing for a young boy’s mind.

  The Rite of Seriol’s Appellation is about to take place, and the children present wait in eager anticipation.

  He places the book upon the altar and removes a hatch above it, allowing moonlight to shine down on the cover. In a moment, an eye appears—slowly forming. First the outline, then the shape of an eye staring straight ahead.

  The appellation of the eye is to be bestowed upon Seriol.

  Awe-filled gasps ripple through the room.