The house greeted me with the smell of fresh bread and something elusively familiar—perhaps the very memory of carefree times. My mother bustled about by the hearth, humming an old song so familiar that my heart ached with tenderness. Her movements, slightly slowed by fatigue, held a special grace that no amount of magic crystals could buy.
" Mom, these are for you... very pretty flowers," I said, holding out my prize, feeling like a four-year-old boy with the most beautiful pebble from the road. My voice trembled treacherously, as if I wasn't giving flowers, but confessing something more.
Mom turned around, and her face lit up with that special smile only mothers have. Surprise flashed across her cheeks, red and freckled—those little spots like a map of our country—and then... that very smile, worth risking the monarch's favor for. Tears of joy glistened in her eyes.
" Thank you, Loin. These are very beautiful flowers," she took them carefully, as if they were the most precious stones. Her fingers touched the petals tenderly. "Since they have roots, let's try making a pot together? So they'll take root and bring us joy for a long time."
" Go ahead, this will be interesting," a warmth that no amount of mana crystals could buy spread through her chest. This simple idea held something of the primordial magic of the earth, a sacred act of creation.
We got to work. Mom knew her way around flowers—her hands deftly conjured ice, shaping the walls of the future pot. I helped as best I could, hindering more than helping, but she didn't criticize. She simply smiled and guided my clumsy movements. My stream of consciousness subsided for a moment, giving way to the flow of mana between my fingers. This was meditation, when the paradox of existence was resolved not by complex constructions, but by simple action.
The process was mesmerizing. There's something primordial and magical about how shapeless ice transforms into something useful and beautiful. No crystals involved—just human hands, patience, and love.
" Our pot turned out to be an interesting shape," I remarked, examining our creation. "But it's cool."
And indeed, the pot turned out uneven, lopsided, asymmetrical, like life itself, with playful curves and bulges, with our fingerprints in the ice. Far from perfect, but that was its charm. It was alive, real, made with soul. It exuded the freedom to create without regard for canons.
" Yes, I hope it lasts a long time," Mom said, stroking the icy sides of our creation. "If anything happens, I'll fix it every day. Love also requires daily repairs, doesn't it?" Then she looked at me with an understanding gaze: "And why did you decide to use flowers with roots?"
The question caught me off guard. How can I explain my fears without looking like a coward?