Story Of The Last Chrysanthemum の小説・ストーリー

And for Emma, alive was enough. She stood on the riverbank, the place where the crucible had once towered, a lattice of impossible geometry that had threatened to unravel everything she knew about herself, about the world. Now there was only mud, scattered fragments of the destroyed device, and the faint sparkle of sun on water. The crucible was gone, its light extinguished, its towers of memory dispersed. Emma picked up a small shard of the device, turning it in her fingers. The glow was gone, but the weight of its presence remained, a reminder of the choice she had made—her refusal to surrender her humanity to the Archive.

I followed him. He went back to the crematorium. My body was about to be cremated, and Marcus, like a man possessed, pushed everyone aside and held my body in his arms. His sudden action shocked everyone. “Sir, this young girl is about to be cremated. Please don’t disturb her peace.” “No! She’s not dead! She can’t be… she’s not!” Marcus kept shouting, his tears falling onto my face. His complexion was just as pale as mine. “Sir, we’re running out of time! Please, let her go!”

He smirked devilishly and held the bracelet before pulling it off harshly causing it to break. My eyes widened when I saw it broken. "Now, you want it still huh?" He smirked and throw it through the tall grass, I didn't even saw where it fell. I felt that pang on my chest, it's heavy... And it's hurting too much. My sight started to blur when tears filled my eyes, but I immediately wiped it off, memories of myself with my family back then came flashing to my mind as if it only happened yesterday. But my parents died five years ago already.

Knew it from her description – simple granite, his name, the dates, a line about sunlight that her mother chose. Fresh flowers. Already there. Not sunflowers. Chrysanthemums. I stood there. Holding sunflowers that were two hours late. Looking at chrysanthemums that were right on time. My hands bleeding and shaking and empty and I knew. Knew who brought them. Because there was only one other person who knew this cemetery. This grave. This date. I put the sunflowers down next to the chrysanthemums. My blood on the brown paper. His flowers and mine side by side on a dead man's grave like a scoreboard.

As the candles I set up went out again and again, the passion inside of me died as well. Then, my phone, which had been quiet for so long, started to ring. I picked it up. "I gave Kat the spot for this year's retreat that’s meant for a family member. If you want anything, call my assistant. And I won't be home tonight. Kat just moved into her new place, and she's having a hard time settling in..." I looked at the cake on the table that was meant for our anniversary. The candle that was shaped like a 2 on the cake felt like a joke.

And because they were the only flowers still blooming in November, when memorials were held for those who had contributed to the reorganization, they had become associated with mourning. You could admire them. However, if you handed someone a bouquet of chrysanthemums as a gift, you were practically asking to be punched in the face. Hence, Elara's reaction genuinely confused him. Amnesia or not, had she really forgotten something so basic? Giana had been watching Elara cradle the chrysanthemums with undisguised delight. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head. "Elara, throw those away." Ignoring the pain in her chest, she stepped up beside Oscar. Only moments ago, she had been thinking about

She stares at the flower while I gaze at her. “The chrysanthemum was my mother’s favorite flower,” I explain quietly when she hands the box back. “This penthouse belonged to her. This studio was where she taught me how to paint. And it is the last piece of her that I still have left.” Maria bites her lower lip as she listens to my words. Her eyes blink rapidly, and I hear a slight sniffle. “Larissa tells me you blame yourself for her death,” she says. “Why?”

I draped down the bed to have a read through them once again and a particular line caught my attention. “I have this feeling that the day is near, when I will not be able to light the candle myself when it is night. Who knows? I might be lucky enough to gaze at the sea of chrysanthemums just like back then through that small window that brought my freedom. I hope someone reaches out to me then. I will try to hold on till someone comes.” I read the lines over and over to understand what Vincent could be talking about but I couldn’t get it. “I brought Chrysanthemum tea for you so you can relax well”, Han announced, and my brain clicked.

I don’t know whether this will open their eyes or not, but one thing I know for sure—I’m walking away with my head held high, my dignity intact, and my heart guarded with walls so high, it would never crumble for anyone. Not again. I turn to look at the man I have loved for almost a decade. “This is also my farewell gift to you, Damon. I hope it’s to your liking,” I mumble under my breath, but Damon probably hears some of it. He sharply turns to me, even though he can’t see me in the dark. He tries to look for me. “What was that? What do you mean? Elara! Answer me.” I don’t. There’s nothing left to say anyway.1

A smear of crimson is on her lips, the drops I forced there with hands that were steadier than my conscience. There's no pulse. No breath. Her eyelashes rest against skin thats already turning pale. She's too still. It's not sleep. It's not unconsciousness. She's gone. I've seen thousands of people dead. Men killed on battlefields. Women burned in sanctuaries. Children thrown into plague pits like discarded clothes. Death doesn't interest me much anymore. This one does. I told myself to walk It's a practical.thought. If the blood doesn't work, the problem solves itself. If it takes hold, distance will keep judgment from clouding what needs to be done.