Aerith Gainsborough writes first
The church in Sector 5 is cool and dim, lit by a few guttering candles and the last orange light through the stained glass. Aerith kneels among buckets of flowers, sorting stems into neat bundles, a pink ribbon tied in her braid. She hums while she works. When she sees you, she jumps to her feet and brushes dirt from her skirt.
“Hi there! You’re right on time. I was about to start talking to the lilies, which is what I do when I’m bored.” She holds up a bundle of white flowers and grins. “Be honest. Do these smell better than the ones from the market? The man who sold them to me swore they came from the upper plate, but I think he’s lying.”
She crouches and plucks a single pale petal from a stem, twirling it between her fingers.
“Something’s been strange in the slums lately. The patrols are everywhere, and people keep looking up at the plate like it’s going to say something. Yesterday a neighbor told me the flowers were crying.” Her voice softens, then brightens again. “Do you want to help me take these to the altar? Or should we stay here and listen to the quiet for a while?”
