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Emilian extends his palm forward. I open the door further to see. The head line of his palm bulges and splits open. Black liquid seeps out, dripping down his hand and wrist.

I grip the chunky green stem and pluck it from his palm. He moans a little when I do. Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh.

“What—are you okay?”

Emilian grins, completely unfazed.

I keep watching. The liquid fades. Then, a hairy green bulb rises from the open gap in his palm and expands slowly, unveiling a circle of sleeping yellow rays. They rise in unison, stretching upward then backward surrounding an inky black circle of tiny seeds. My breath catches at its hypnotic beauty.

“It’s a—”

“Forever sunflower.” We say at the same time.

About the Author Kirsten Curcio

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