風香

Fuka

“...I’m still alive.”
I thought I heard that faint whisper.

I was visiting a florist.
A vivid gerbera caught my eye, yet the overall display looked somehow tired.
As I was thinking this, a wilted gerbera was casually tossed into a discard bucket.

It was an ordinary scene, something that happens every day—
and yet, before I realized it, I had reached out and picked the flower up.
Its head hung low, as if it might wither at any moment,
and in its eyes I sensed a quiet, lingering resentment.

Perhaps it is only humans who consider this “normal.”
What must those who always receive, who are cast aside, be thinking?
…No words come to me.