Sweeping away as far as the eye could see were Forget-Me-Nots. No grass, no other splashes of color in the purplish-blue and green, just Forget-Me-Nots. They swayed in the warm, gentle breeze, turning their faces to the golden late afternoon sun. In the fall they would dry and shed their seeds in the stronger, colder winds, spreading their delicate beauty to even further distances. Up and down the hills, to the edge of a stream, pausing only for the flowing water, continuing up the other bank and on and on and on.
They continued the way human memory couldn’t, replicating exactly and blooming year after year without change, only becoming more deeply entrenched. The tiny flowers never knew the reason for their planting, but they marked it all the same. They mutely marked a memory so powerful and so important it had spilled over into action uncountable years ago. But just as human memory faded, humans themselves faded, leaving only this sea of desire for a memory lost to time.
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