Copper Blossom

It was too late. The last of the blossoms had fallen. 

Five trees standing, four alive, three apple-cherries, two unspoiled. One - only one - had blossomed. 

The winds of the previous days had shaken the trees bare and the petals were strewn across the blackened landscape. Sweet pink stars studded the ground, coppery orange at the tips and in the middle. They would’ve held for a week or more if it hadn’t been for the winds. But if we’d waited longer, the others would arrive.

For now it was just us. We scrambled along the embankment, sliding on the black mud, avoiding the deep brown water below. We searched for whole flowers, not torn or tainted. We gathered loose petals as well, in case. 

One of the infected had sprouted dead blooms. The petals were withered grey, the centres blue-black. They looked like eyes all around the ground, watching everything we were doing. We tried not to look at them, you never knew. But it was hard, like when you just can't help staring at something you don’t want to see. 

The light came through the clouds, thin and whispery, not warm or golden like it used to be. She remembered. We didn’t.

“Stop!” she yelled. Her face hardened. We froze. He dropped the grey thing. It fell as if made of lead, not petal. His head dropped too and he stared at the ground.

“Not those”, her face softened, “Remember?” she said.

A breeze rushed in around us. We would need to leave soon.  

It was lodged in the tree trunk when it showed itself. It was the best one, the one we’d hoped to find. The petals were orangey-pink all over,  glistening rose-gold in sunlight. “It’s here, it’s here!” We found the Copper Blossom.