Bunga Kematian Novels & Stories

Mila cried again and the flower halted again. Mila plucked it and waited for it either shrivel up or blossom again. But nothing happened. Neither did the flower shrivel nor did it blossom again. And she knew it magic at its core. The bloom would blossom only when the flower in her hand would die, and it won’t die unless the flower in her hand was used.

asked Erika enthusiastically. "Of course. There are also Angels selling such dresses, wing accessories and crowns!" "Wow! Angels selling? What did they buy it with? Money? Gold? Or what?" "Fresh fruit and flowers! Why do you think Angels need money for?" "Why do Angels want flowers and fruit? Do they eat fruit like fairies?" "We don't eat it. We inhale the aroma. Fresh fruit is very fragrant, as are some flowers and wild grasses!" Erika's eyes widened perfectly.

No one is in there, but I know I wasn’t imagining things. “There is something that you always have with you, but you always leave behind,” she says in her melodious voice. “There is something with no legs to dance, no lungs to breathe, no life to live or die, and yet it does all three.” A riddle? Why is she telling me a riddle? I shake my head. This is insane–the wildest part being that I somehow know this is my mother’s voice. “What does that mean?” I ask the water.

That flower's core was yellow, as if it had a small, lonely sun in so much darkness. "Helleborus." Tinea said as she picked up one of the cakes with the flower on top. "One of the winter-resistant flowers, it is said that it was created because Mother Moon refused to see the precious flowers die after autumn. The Shooting Stars say that winter was born because of this mourning of the Goddess." With a fork the woman cut the cake in half, a filling so black as the flower dripped down the plate. "Many call it the 'flower that refuses to die,' but as much as its legend is beautiful, this flower is related to moments of inevitable sadness and loss, a painful memory that hurts the soul."

Curse her and say she was dying? "I didn't know she was sick! And how is her death automatically my fault? Have you already forgotten how she used to bully me when we were kids? She pushed me into a patch of wolfsbane! I nearly died because of her! She hated me! Why would she ever die for someone she hated?

He took the flowers to Mom's grave, a place I had never been allowed to visit. Rain drizzled down on Dad, as if it were trying to wash away the blood and guilt from his body. He set the bouquet down, crouched before the grave, and whispered, "Sweetheart… Lina picked these for you. You always loved lilies, and she remembered."

"I don't want the grape vines to die." I pitied these vines, which seemed worthless to outsiders. I pitied myself too, who seemed worthless to outsiders. At midnight, Kash sent me home. I stood in the yard for a long time. There were many flowers planted here, almost all of which Jeffrey liked. I picked these flowers in turn and packed them. The tulip was planted after Jeffrey saw the wonderful colors it had. The Daisy, representing purity and love, was brought back by Jeffrey after watching a ballet performance. The Sunflower, with its vitality, was given by Jeffrey when he went to the amusement park.

"Don’t waste your energy, child. There’s no fighting me here. Not in this place." "What are you talking about?" Ardan’s voice was tight with anger. "Where’s the flower? Where is it?" Gloria glanced around, as though bored by the question. "The flower you seek," she said, her voice thick with malice, "blooms once a year. Only when I allow it. You’re too late. It’s already been placed where it will do you the most harm." I took a step forward, confusion clouding my face. "What do you mean? You—"

Soft, somber music played in the background, adding to the melancholic atmosphere. In the center of the grand hall, a beautifully carved mahogany casket rested on an elevated platform, adorned with an array of white lilies and roses, Klara’s favorite flowers. The delicate fragrance filled the air, offering a bittersweet reminder of her presence. A large portrait of Klara stood beside the casket, capturing her serene and graceful demeanor, a stark contrast to the current sorrowful setting.

The realization that I was dead and would never again sit with everyone I loved overwhelmed me, and I began to weep uncontrollably. “Clara…” I turned in surprise at the sound of Lucas’s voice. I watched as he approached, a vibrant bouquet of red roses cradled in his arms. I stood frozen as he placed the flowers atop my gravestone. He sighed quietly. For a moment, I feared he could see me. His eyes were red and swollen, bloodshot with exhaustion. Stubble lined his jaw, and no emotion appeared in his gaze. I glanced at the bouquet and laughed softly. “Who brings red roses to a funeral, Lucas? I honestly don’t know what to say to you.”