SCENE 8 – “The Forgotten Flower”

[EXT. FOREST PATH – LATE MORNING]

The sun filters through the canopy of ancient trees. The leaves sway gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows on the mossy path below. A small family of glowing butterflies drifts by.

Lyria walks beside her father, her small hand tucked in his. Her snow-white hair glows softly in the light, bouncing with each step.

Birds chirp. Squirrels scamper. Magic dances quietly in the air.

Lyria (curious, tilting her head):

“Papa? School is that way... Where are we going?”

Her father doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes are on the horizon, but something about his expression shifts—subtle, but heavy.

Father (softly, almost whispering):

“We’re going to a special place today.”

Lyria slows her steps. Her ears twitch slightly.

Lyria:“Special place...? What kind of place? I’m... scared...”

He kneels gently beside her, brushing a bit of windblown hair from her face with the softest smile.

Father (calm but bittersweet)

“Don’t worry, my little star. I’m here with you. We won’t stay long—I'll take you to school after, I promise.”

She nods slowly. Trusting.

They continue walking. Along the path, he pauses at a bush blooming with soft blue flowers, plucks a small handful with reverence, and carries them in his hand like they’re made of glass.

[EXT. MEADOW CLEARING – MINUTES LATER]

The trees part into a serene clearing. The grass is short and wildflowers grow freely here. In the center sits a small, moss-covered gravestone, simple and clean. No elaborate shrine. Just a name carved gently into the stone in Elvish script, and the symbol of a tiny star.

Lyria’s father kneels down beside it and places the blue flowers before it.

Lyria stands beside him, confused but respectful.

Lyria:“...Papa? Whose grave is this?”

A pause. The wind stills.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, his eyes on the stone like he's lost in the past.

Father (quietly, deeply):

“This... this was your brother’s.”

Lyria’s eyes widen slightly, the words not sinking in right away.

Father:

“If he were alive, he would have been your elder. But... he didn’t make it. He... he left this world the same day he entered it.”

Lyria looks down at the grave again. The silence wraps around them like a blanket. A strange ache fills her chest.

Then...

[FLASHBACK – GRAINY LIGHT, WARM COLORS TURNED GRAYISH]

We see a younger version of her father, pacing anxiously outside a small healing hut made of wood and glowing bark.

The air is tense. A midwife bursts through the curtain, face pale.

“Come quickly!”

He runs inside. The room is lit by firelight and glowing crystals.

We see the child — a newborn — cradled in a soft cloth, but the body is strange. Fragile. Translucent. Almost no skin.

Other elves whisper in shock, sorrow in their eyes.

Father (whispers, barely audible):

“...No… what… what is this…?”

Tears streak down his face as he gently picks up the infant. His hands tremble. The baby is crying — not in pain, but confusion. Raw, pitiful.

He tries to smile through it.

“You’re still beautiful... you’re still mine.”

But the silence of the others crushes the moment. A soft bell tolls.

[BACK TO PRESENT]

Lyria looks up at her father now — his face older, tired... but strong.

He stands slowly, brushing dirt from his knee, then gently takes Lyria’s hand in his.

Father:

“Come on, little one. He’d be happy you came to visit.”

Lyria looks back once more at the grave, then follows him quietly.

The wind picks up again, and the camera lingers on the blue flowers now lying gently at the base of the stone. One of them glows faintly, then dissolves into sparkles, drifting up into the sky.