The Summons

He receives the letter. The war calls him. The flowers react first—surging outward, blooming too brightly. Their stillness breaks. Colour floods the space. This is not the moment of departure—it’s the moment of emotional rupture. The realisation of leaving. Of losing. Of everything suddenly becoming too vivid to bear. The blooms crowd the frame, as if they’re trying to stop time, hold it in place. Even in the chaos, their colour doesn’t shift. It’s the same as it ever was. The garden is unsettled, but still alive. Beauty becomes unbearable. He stands, summons in hand, held by something ancient and breathing.