"Do not pluck the dandelions."

I told him I was unaware at the time—unaware of the story of the glorious sacred flower of our ruined battlefields. These battlefields were once our treasured lands. In these lost treasured lands, we prospered and lived bountifully. Though, for only a short period during medieval times.

I said I did not remember. Like everyone else, I could not remember. Why?

He held his calloused palm out to me, showing me the mercy I had asked for so desperately. Simultaneously, the sores and bruises that his hand was decorated with reminded me of how unworthy I was to be receiving such benevolence. How pitiful a swine I was—attempting to amend all wrongs with such outright disrespect. The intention of genuineness was false reassurance that I could be instantly purified of all past crimes, both minor and immense. All pining and whining did pay off little by little.

Forgiveness. A word that meant pitying those who had suffered poverty for malicious deeds.

The cold touch of his hand sent my skin on a craze of goosebumps and my spine shivering in fear. It was the deliciousness and brilliant emotion that wells up in a person after being given what was rightfully deprived of.

An ordinary person he was, and a typical person he may be. However, there had to be something wrong with someone who tries to act too normal.

The only thing I envy about him was his ability to communicate with others so easily. He was always so calm and gentle with the loveliest smile there was. With an especially pleasing charm and the most gracious manners, his presence glittered brightest among all others despite his "normalness." It's as if he was some saint, preaching peace and sensibility.

I laughed to myself as I thought about the pure beings humans referred to as saints. I contemplated the possibilities and shook my head in denial.

No, not a saint, maybe a god!

The idea amused me greatly, and I scoffed disapprovingly at my childlike imagination. Perhaps, my grandiose creativity amassed only due to my miserable knowledge about being pitifully adopted.

Often, my mind would wander off when my old friends spoke about their own united family. The ability to live in unison with the parents that gave life to you is one of my secret longings. It frustrated me every time I let the thoughts crawl into my head. Always—every single time, they end up something like this:

Family! I wonder where the mother that nurtured me in her womb went. Oh, she must've hated me if she abandoned me.

Cue the mime gestures of rage and sorrow, and that was what the whole scene looked like. At least, how I reimagined it.

Part of me wants to believe that there was a reasonable explanation for her to leave me. Perhaps, she had died, and there were no known relatives. I was always wild on a rampage, trying to conjure up stories to make sense of all the nonsense. It always gave me a pounding headache thinking about it, so I usually cast all these "maybes" aside and set my head straight on living in the present.

On the other hand, in the present was this annoying itch in the back of my mind that kept nagging at me. It was as if I had forgotten something important, something that was precious or valuable.

It pissed me off! Seriously. What am I so ignorant of that I have this horrible, irritating feeling?

"What are you thinking about?" his cheerful voice asked me.

The gentle snow falling outside the window behind him set a serene backdrop. It suited him.

I felt relieved to have him interrupting my train of thoughts. If I had gone any further, how lost would I be in the dreams I sought out for and the memories I wished I had? He is my savior in times like these.

"Don't worry about it," I said with a long sigh, "it's just stupid stuff."

"Ah, of course," he mumbled to himself. He rolled his dark eyes and brushed back his vibrant hair. I always thought it was strange to have such unnatural hair color. His wisps of hair were like fire, and his face captured the devil's alluring gaze.

I wrinkled my eyebrows together—in disbelief at his sarcastic tone of voice.

"Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?" I questioned him, placing down my black ink pen with a tap.

His face wore a mourning expression. In his eyes, I saw great sadness and this frosty energy that exuded menacingly. At first, he was merely upset, but then a flame of frustration sparked. The mood swings were becoming routine, and it came to the point where I could tell when he would lapse into his puberty-like phases.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he told me vaguely.

It appeared to me that his jaw was clenched tightly, and his fists were squeezing until they were pale. His actions always left me in a state of puzzlement. As much as the whereabouts of my family were a headache, he was twice as much. Because for him, there were no viable explanations for his constantly fluctuating attitude. Even more so for why he visits me so often.

I saw that with others he grinned and laughed with joy. He was always the highlight of the fun. Never has he ever given off such a dismal air in front of anyone besides me. That was what kept me in a constant flurry around this man.

"Oh!" I suddenly exclaimed. "Do you remember Dandelion Miracles?"

As if I had triggered some kind of booby trap, he jerked back.

"You...you remember?" he gasped, his eyes widening with surprise.

"No? Remember what? I recently published the first book of my new series, you idiot! Dandelion Miracles is its name! I was hoping you had kept up with my new work. I guess it was too much to ask for," I told him with disappointment written all over my face.

He slumped a bit after hearing my adamant "no." This time, he turned his whole body away from me and crossed his arms. Like a little child, he seemed to be protesting.

"When will you remember, little dandelion?" he sang with such despair.

"Oh, so you did read the book! Why didn't you just say so? Then, would you like to tell me what you think about it?" I asked excitedly.

I didn't notice how my hands clasped together or how my eyes glowed with the utmost happiness. Neither did I see how the man kept wiping his face with one arm and then the other while his face was turned away.

One side. The other side. Then repeat.

"Hey! Why are you..." I reached out to grab his arm, but he shook me off as if I were some trivial bug biting at his skin. So small and frail he thought I was.

I reached out again. And again. And again.

Smack!

I stood up and clenched my teeth. With my feet grounded and my fingers twitching, I couldn't help the words that flowed out. A rush of adrenaline had already filled my veins.

"What's wrong with you, huh? You don't hit someone that's trying to talk to you!" I yelled, rubbing the fresh red mark that he left.

"Well, who are you to act so damned ignorant? We've spent lifetimes together and you—never mind. You're just some irrelevant weed," he said, grabbing his stuff with one swoop.

"Weed?" I asked. I was going to ignore his insulting behavior, but for once, I felt hurt by something that a saint—no, a "god," told me.

"You're a nuisance, and you always get in my way.... They say you're a miracle, and I'm some disaster waiting to happen. They say without you, I wouldn't exist," he told me, opening the door and taking a step out.

"Who says that? I know I'm bothering you a bit...but you're being unreasonable!" I yelled at his back.

The door slammed with a bang, and the sound of his footsteps softened with each tap. I sighed and hid the book I thought was my most exceptional achievement behind my back like a complete disgrace. I fiddled with the cover a bit before I gave up waiting for him to come back. I traced the outline of the words, "Dandelion Miracles." Then, I traced my name, which was in small print at the bottom. My name in this life, Lionne Gardener.

My heart pounded with fifty percent of pride and the other half of sadness. I painfully smiled for myself before I shelved the book.

...

Smile.

They say you're most beautiful when you smile. For when you smile, you share a little bit of happiness with those who witness it. It's a special thing, so use it often and make those around you smile too. It's a gift, that girl. She's a gift.

"A gift, my ass!" he said, kicking a rock out of the sidewalk and into the snow-blanketed street. "What about me? Why does no one care about me?"

...

My body has always been weak, ever since I was born in this life. If he thinks I'm a weed, then at one point, I was a stubborn seed—struggling to live. Doesn't that mean I'm at my peak? Doesn't that mean I'm stronger now? Why is he calling me a weed? I know I'm crippled, but still, I don't understand.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I hear this voice. The voice tells me pretty random things. There's no rhyme or reason in what it tells me. Though I remember one time, it told me:

"It's a gift, that girl. She's a gift. Although you are my gift, you are only half of the package."

I always thought that the last sentence was unique, so I wrote it into my book. Should I consider this plagiarizing?

I can't do anything else but write, and when he is my only guest, it makes me feel lonely when he leaves. I thought I should at least share my only creation with someone.

When I wrote the story, I had the idea of a tale of sibling gods. I've always dreamed of having a sibling. They would be polar opposite twins. One child was honest and too ambitious, and the other, a pathological liar with no direction in life. Goddess of Peace and God of Chaos were the titles they were given. One was named Miracle, and the other was titled Disaster.

While Miracle was praised for her existence, Disaster was feared for the unsuspecting danger he wrought.

Disaster waged war after war, started feuds among the most bonded friends, and caused one storm after another. Despite all his fuss, Miracle always consoled him. Then, it started all over again, like a cycle of peace and chaos.

At the end of the story, a dandelion would sprout from the barren land, its vibrant green tainting the darkest era. That is what we would call our hope in a world where light couldn't shine.

People around me have told me it was quite a depressing image, but I believe it is more beautiful and glorious than any flourishing field. No painting of heaven's gardens could ever replicate the message behind the single flower in the middle of a battlefield. That, my readers, is peace in the dreariest times of our lives.

I'd like to say that I strive to give hope with my words, despite my inability to convey my heart to others as Zion does. Zion—a man like a saint, but more like a god.

Each morning, I would crawl out of my bed, open the curtains, and bask in the dim sunlight of winter. Then, I would return to my sheets and receive my breakfast. Typically, I had a glass of milk with all sorts of fruits, bread, and some smoked meat. Sometimes, I'd have butter or jam with the bread. Occasionally, I would have chocolate pudding. Oh, how I treasured that pudding when I had it! Before all those foods, I'd have my supplements. There were numerous pills I needed to wash down with the milk. I had to have my blood pressure taken, and then I needed to carefully measure my weight and height.

They never improved.

I always had a vitamin deficiency, so my meals had to consist of hearty foods. The pudding had to go. I had a decent height at five foot six, but my weight was never proportioned with how tall I was. I was thin, and although I consistently had at least ten hours of sleep, I always looked exhausted. Dark circles hung under my hazelnut eyes, and my lips were chapped, peeling away like dried school glue on the skin. Blood had already deserted the apples of my cheeks, and it wasn't long before the children next door referred to me as "Miss Ghost."

Don't pity me. I don't want that. I want to keep lying to myself.

"Miss Gardener—"

Please, let me live my lie!

I could feel myself becoming delirious with the maliciousness that teased away at my soul. However, I did not allow myself to be subdued so effortlessly. My heart throbbed like the sounding of a gong. It prepared me for a war that needed to be fought—a battle that needed to be won no matter what.

A distinct knock sounded around in the room, shocking me back into reality. My head snapped towards its origin. Then, I crept to my feet and wobbled over to the door. I opened it slightly, seeing a familiar shadowy silhouette. The young man tried hard not to appear rude and overbearing. Despite this, I giggled at his suit and tie and combed back hair. It was pouring, and believe me, he was soaked head to toe.

"I brought flowers. I wanted to...say sorry for what I said last time," Zion bashfully admitted.

"Flowers?" I asked, looking at the colorful bouquet he held in his hands.

"Yeah, a few roses, tulips, and daisies," he told me.

He handed them to me, and I reached out to grab them. I trembled as I did and hugged them with my skinny arms.

"Thank you. I've already forgiven you. Come in for a moment. I still want to show you my book. I didn't get a chance last time," I said with a wide smile.

"Really?" Zion asked, his eyes glazing over.

"Yes, unless you're afraid of weeds," I joked and whisked to my bedside for a copy of the cherished novel.

I placed the thick book into his hands, trading the novel for the bouquet.

"Once you've read it, let me know what you think of it. I take criticism well, you know? Also, being called a weed is a pretty feeble insult. You could do better next time," I said to him firmly.

"Next time? I'm not going to insult you again," Zion argued, twisting his eyebrows.

"Don't say that. It's not the first time you've done this. I like the flowers. Make sure to bring another bouquet for your next visit."

He gave me a sigh, and I waved him goodbye as he departed with the novel wrapped tightly in his arms. A salty tear trickled down my powdered face. The makeup that masked my illness dripped down onto my dress in a melting mess.

"Miss Gardener, I'm afraid you don't have much longer," the voice echoed.

I choked on the salty taste of the liquid that rolled down my bony cheeks to my chin. I wiped and cleaned the canvas of my face to start afresh—to pretend for another day.

Zion is going to need the flowers. By the next time he visits me, he will wish he had them—regardless if I could hold them.

We met while I was at a hospital counter. I recall desperately trying to sort out my personal information for my appointment. Zion was a newly employed doctor, running to and fro for another patient. The moment he laid his eyes on me, perhaps, he knew I didn't have much time left. I didn't know his motive in trying to be friendly with me, trying to lessen the loneliness I deserved.

For if you didn't realize, dear reader, I lived in a room in a clinic. My bed belonged to the hospital, my food was supplied by the nurses, and, most of all, my dress was a plain hospital gown. The very makeup that painted my face was a doctor's mask I stole. Yet, I continued to live my lie as if it were my life.

For twenty-five years, I, Lionne Gardener, have been so heartachingly miserable.

It was past time for me to leave this world and appear again in another thousand years. I am but a stain on this world's canvas. I do not belong where peace must remain.

I couldn't hold on any longer in the darkness that enveloped my soul. That rope I used to reach to climb out of such oblivion was no longer there. Drowning in my tears, fighting battles alone, and purging my black heart of all the impurities that I eventually placed on others. I was always a burden to my dear sister. She, who was able to banish evil spirits and replace them with good, was who I disgustingly called my sibling. How could I call her my sister, knowing how horrible I am? Miracle, Goddess of Peace, please, have mercy on me! I repent! I do!

...

Zion believed that his life was meant to bring torture upon others and crime among innocence. He was the only god that remembered the past—not very clear, but it haunted him day by day. Imagine being the reason why the world suffered, cried, and felt immense pain. That heavy guilt crushed his mind and burned at his eyes when he sobbed.

Cry. Cry. Keep crying.

He resolved to fight and find an end to this madness that tore away at him, so when he brought home the Ph.D.—to the surprise of the parents that adopted him, he had found a passion that pulsed so reverently in his body. The challenges broke away one by one, and soon, he had conquered all, except his missing sister. The words "separated at birth" would strike any sad strings in any ears, but what could be worse than learning your sister had been hospitalized all this time?

"What is this? Is this...is this her way of telling me that it is all my fault?" Zion questioned the book that he had finished reading in his study.

He was mixed in emotions, struggling to distinguish the truth held in the precious pages that his sister wrote so diligently. Zion always had a suspicion that she was lying to him about not remembering everything—just to make himself feel better.

One thing that never made any sense was why she would do such a thing. She was the Goddess of Peace. She couldn't tell lies even if it saved others. He knew so well of this little detail about her.

Yet, he denied it.

It couldn't be right because he knew for a fact that he deserved the punishment for his past lives' crimes. Zion must have remembered wrong. He continued to tell himself this as if it were some routine—some prayer to reassure himself that it was okay.

...

You, who had always tried to be kind and generous, are now trying to atone for sins. These such sins were never yours, dear Zion. You are someone else in this life.

...

When he heard the news, his face grew pale, and his hands trembled with fear. There was no time to ask his sister any questions. Zion had to be by her side as soon as possible. That was all that mattered to him at that very moment.

"Hey, Miracle, wake up," he said desperately, "you can't sleep now!"

Me? Miracle? What is he talking about?

My thoughts were short, and the world continued to move too quickly to comprehend.

I can't be Miracle. If I were Miracle, I wouldn't be like this. I wouldn't be in pain like this.

"Keep breathing. Everything will be alright. Your heart rate...! Miracle, it's drastically slowing down! Nurse, get some warm water immediately!" Zion demanded.

The room was filled with warped images of people rushing about in urgency. It was the wind before the storm that brushed my cheek softly. It could also be the last few droplets before the rainbow.

I have no choice! I have to...I have to tell him the truth before it is too late. I can't pretend any longer.

With the last of my energy, I mustered up the will to speak a few sentences. I had made my mind up about this long ago. A tear trickled down my cheek as I watched him hold my hand so desperately.

"I—I'm sorry I lied about forgetting you, Miracle. Just smile for me, okay? Don't worry about me, okay?" I said with a strained throat and heavily raspy breathing.

Zion instantly noticed how I called him by the wrong name—but is it wrong?

"Miracle? You know I'm not Miracle.... Just wait a bit longer! She's entering cardiac arrest!" he yelled frantically to a couple more people.

My eyes fluttered, and my voice slipped away. It was all too late. The machine flatlined with a dull ringing, and everyone in the room was in morbid silence. Only the mournful sobs let me take my last breath—in regret.

"It doesn't matter what anyone says, but Lionne, you are my miracle. You are my dandelion miracle. You're not alone. Next time...next time, we'll find each other, and it'll be different. I won't let it end like this. We won't."

Lionne Gardener

December 25, 1994 - January 12, 2021

Born as one of the two.

A beautiful dandelion.

"I said; don't pluck the dandelions."

"Why can't I pick them? They're just weeds. They're not meant to be in this pretty garden," the little child told him.

"Leave them be. No matter how hard you try to purge dandelions, they will never go away. Believe me, I've tried, but I guess I've learned to live with that," the elderly man told her.

"Ah, come on, old grandpa! Don't get all filled with wisdom all of a sudden!" the girl scolded him.

"I don't. Ask the Goddess of Peace about that in a thousand years. Now, let me plant these sunflowers," the old man said.

The girl bent down and intently watched as he dug out a little hole for the sprouts. There was a glimmering passion in the elderly man's eyes.

"You really do love flowers," the girl laughed.

"Of course. A beautiful flower was once my sister."

January 11, 2021

Dear Brother,

I gave you this book hoping you would understand that it wasn't your fault—for I am truly sorry I am the pathological liar that I am. I tried to pretend I was as pure and innocent as you've always been, but I realized I was wrong. I spent years of this life perfecting my novel to confess my errors and start anew.

But still, you didn't understand.

What you never knew, my precious brother, was that you were Miracle and I was Disaster.

I'm sorry it had to be this way. Don't wait for me. I will come back very soon. Go on and live without pain. I should have told you so long ago, Miracle. I should have said that I love you.

Your little dandelion,

Lionne Gardener