AJAR
.
"When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."
-Oscar Wilde
It would have been a quiet night, were it not for the hum of a thousand fireflies caught in a jar too small to hold them. The gardens were always tranquil at this late hour, but she had never known their silence. She had never known any silence. And for as long as in her veins flowed the luminescence of lightning bugs, she never would.
Some children kept the company of imaginary friends; She had found comfort in the gods. It was no different now, in the presence of her greatest confidante. She knelt at the base of Floral Court's Great Tree, bathed in the warm glow of lanterns that swayed from its branches. It watched over her with eyes reflected only in the silver of her own.
"Sorry– I'm late," the Silven spoke in soft whispers, mindful of those in nearby homes who, unlike her, could withstand their darkened stillness.
Though her mind could etch a face in bark, it could not give the Tree a voice. There was no reply but the murmur of wind through its leaves. It blinked. She understood. And so these conversations went. Her pure-white hands never bore the red stain of guilt, but the same could not be said of her heart.
"It pains me," she spoke to the staring Tree in a cadence that sounded almost rehearsed. "That I'm so often the cause of your tears. I hope you'll not soon grow tired of my begging for your forgiveness. I really am grateful for it, despite how my continued mistakes make it seem."
"Maybe if they hadn't–" Her stomach churned. No. She couldn't blame them. Her eyes burned with tears, but they were kept at bay with a practiced breath. She started over. "Maybe if I'd been worthy of their time, some might still be here to tell me what I should do.— What do I do?"
The Great Tree could do naught but smile as the supplicant's fingers grasped at its bark, desperate for the wisdom she craved. She sought answers in all the places she knew to find them. Whispers in the wind. Melodies in the chimes. Flickers in the moonlight. But all were silent.
All but the fireflies, buzzing in their jar, begging to be set free.
