The Flower That Waited

"Why is that one still shut?" Iris asked. She knelt in the moss beside a small white flower, folded tight. Wisp drifted down beside her and glowed a little brighter. All around them the forest held up its lanterns of light. Every other flower on the hill had opened. This one stayed closed, like a sleeping hand. Iris touched one petal with one finger. Nothing happened. "It opens when it's ready, not before," she said, and sat down to wait.

So they waited. Wisp hummed, low and soft, the way clouds do. Iris watched a beetle walk the whole length of a fern. She counted the stars she could see through the branches. She counted them again and got a different number. A moth came and sat on her knee like it lived there. The moss under her was cool and deep. The flower did not open, but Iris did not mind the waiting.

The forest got quieter. Owls settled. The lanterns of light between the branches swung and steadied. Iris breathed slow, and Wisp breathed slow too, in their cloudy way. Then, with the smallest sound in the world, the white flower moved. One petal leaned back. Then another. Then all of them at once, like a hand opening to show you something. Inside sat a single drop of dew, and the dew was full of light.

Iris leaned close. The light in the drop was cold and silver and alive. It threw little moons across her cheeks and across Wisp's edges. "Oh," she whispered. She thought of carrying it home in her cupped hands, lighting the path all the way, every root and stone showing clear. She wanted that very much. Beside her, Wisp drifted lower and lower, right down to the petals, glowing and dimming, glowing and dimming.

Iris knew that glowing. Wisp wanted the light too. Wisp wanted it inside them, the way a lamp wants a flame. Two of them, and one drop of dew. Iris looked at the flower. She looked at Wisp, hovering so close their edges shook. "It opens when it's ready, not before," she said slowly. "Maybe we are not ready either." She sat back on her heels and thought, with her chin on her knees.

Then Iris had an idea. She did not take the drop out. She lifted her hands away and made room. "Come down," she said. "All the way down." Wisp sank into the open flower, soft as a breath, until the petals held them like a bowl. The drop of dew sat right in the middle of Wisp. The light went up through the cloud, and Wisp turned bright, bright, bright.

The whole hill went silver. Moss, ferns, beetles, the backs of old trees, all of it lit from one small flower. Wisp rose up shining, and the dew stayed where it had always been, safe in its white cup. Iris stood. Her shadow stretched long and friendly behind her. Wisp drifted ahead of her, lighting every root and every stone, just as she had wished. She had a lantern now, and the lantern was a friend.

They walked home the slow way. Wisp glowed over the path and Iris named things as they passed: snail, stump, puddle, fern. Behind them, the white flower stayed open on its hill, holding its drop of light for anyone who sat still long enough. "It opens when it's ready, not before," Iris said, and Wisp glowed brighter, which was how Wisp said yes.

At the edge of the moss, Iris lay down where the roots made a hollow. Wisp settled lower, dimmer now, warm as a coal in winter. Iris opened her hand flat on the moss, and Wisp came to rest in it, light as nothing at all. Her fingers curled around that small glow. The forest hummed. The stars leaned down to watch. Iris closed her eyes with Wisp still held, and the light went quietly out.