Ch 2

The wildflowers, still vibrant with the morning dew, met a brutal end. *Snip, snip, snip* went Leena’s old kitchen shears, severing stems with a clinical precision that belied the turmoil churning within her. Petals, bright yellow and deep purple, fluttered to the floor like discarded memories. She carried the mangled bouquet to the small, cast-iron stove that warmed her apartment in winter. The lingering embers from her afternoon tea glowed a dull orange. With a decisive flick of her wrist, she tossed the flowers into the grate. A soft *crackle* rose as the dry leaves caught, then a quick *whoosh* as the blooms curled and blackened, their sweet scent replaced by the acrid tang of smoke.

Leena returned to her canvas, the half-finished landscape now seeming to mock her. She dipped her brush into the cerulean, then the ochre, applying thick, deliberate strokes. The act of creation was a balm, a way to channel the raw, thorny emotions Mike’s visit had stirred. The locket lay beside her, a cool, metallic weight that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. She painted until the last sliver of daylight faded, the flickering streetlights outside casting long, dancing shadows on her work.

The hospital air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee. Leena felt an oppressive calm descend as she navigated the sterile corridors, each step echoing the hollowness in her chest. Room 312. She pushed the door open.

Mrs. Shen lay pale against the white pillows, her once vibrant face now gaunt, her eyes sunken. Beside her, Holly sat, her hand clasped gently over their mother’s. Holly, ever the picture of serene concern, turned as Leena entered, her expression a careful blend of sorrow and reproach.

"Leena," Holly whispered, her voice soft, almost saccharine. "Thank goodness you came. Mother’s been asking for you."

Leena merely nodded, her gaze fixed on the woman in the bed. "Hello, Mrs. Shen," she said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. It was the tone one might use with a distant acquaintance, not a parent.

Her mother’s eyes fluttered open. A faint tremor ran through her thin hand. "Leena… you came." Her voice was a reedy whisper.

"Mike said you wished to see me," Leena replied, stepping no closer to the bed. "Is there something you needed?"

Holly’s grip on their mother’s hand tightened. "Leena! Our mother is dying. Can’t you show a little compassion? She’s suffering." Her tone was laced with a practiced sorrow, a subtle accusation.

Leena finally turned her gaze to Holly, a sharp glint in her eyes. "Compassion? I believe I am here, am I not? That seems a sufficiently compassionate act, given the circumstances." She paused, a faint *hiss* escaping her lips as she drew a shallow breath. "Unless, of course, you believe I should be weeping. Perhaps a dramatic wail? Would that satisfy your perception of appropriate grief, Holly?"

"Don’t be cruel, Leena," Holly pleaded, her lower lip trembling just so. "She’s frail. She needs your forgiveness."

Leena ignored her, her eyes returning to her mother. "You wished to speak to me, Mrs. Shen? I am here. My time is limited."

A tear traced a path down Mrs. Shen’s temple. "I… I just wanted to see you. One last time."

Leena stood there, unmoving, a statue carved from ice and resentment. The locket felt heavy in her pocket, a constant reminder of the past, a past that refused to burn away as easily as wildflowers.

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