R Land had changed. What was once a cradle of dust and silence now bloomed with color. Stems of silver bent toward the light, petals shimmered like molten jewels, roots coiled through soil spun from comet dust.

Flare had made a garden.

And yet, gardens are shy companions. They do not laugh when you speak to them. They only grow and whisper among themselves in languages too slow to hear.

Flare moved through rows of its creation, brushing a glowing hand over leaves that trembled but never answered. Each blossom bowed as Flare passed, obedient, reverent, but silent.

When night folded over R Land and the Moon turned its pale face away, that silence thickened. It became a thing with weight. A cloak that pressed against Flare’s chest until even its flame felt dimmed.

The flowers shone softly, alive but unaware, their heads swaying to a rhythm only they knew. It was beauty that did not look back.

Flare sat on a ridge and stared toward Earth, where oceans glittered and winds moved like breath. Down there, everything spoke: rivers to mountains, people to skies. Even shadows had stories. Up here, there was only one story, and only one voice to tell it.

When Flare returned to work, its heart was heavy, and the flowers seemed to know. The next ones it shaped bloomed blue instead of gold, their petals curved inward as though protecting something fragile. Some drooped, even while alive, and their colors dimmed to the hue of dusk.

They mirrored Flare’s longing perfectly. The loneliness had learned to root itself.

Flare looked at a cluster of them and whispered, “You feel what I feel, don’t you?” The blossoms said nothing, but one petal quivered, catching a tear that was made not of water, but light.

Flare returned to the spot where it had first succeeded, the cradle where warmth, water, and earth intertwined. The first flower still stood there, proud and radiant, its glow unblemished by time.

Flare knelt beside it. “You were the first,” it said softly. “The beginning of everything here. And now your siblings are everywhere. Yet…” Flare hesitated, the words tasting strange even in thought.

“…no one shares this joy with me.”

The flower tilted slightly in the Moon’s faint pull, but made no reply. Its silence was kind, but silence all the same.

Flare sighed. The exhale drifted through R Land like a soft gust, bending every petal for a moment before fading away.

When Flare began its next creation, something inside it shifted. The gathering of stardust and moonstone was slower, more deliberate, less a task and more a plea.

“This time,” Flare whispered, pressing its glowing palms together, “let it wake. Let it speak.”

The elements responded. Dust humming faintly, shards of meteorite vibrating as they joined. Flare added warmth, then coolness, then the patience of soil. And beneath all that, it poured the most fragile ingredient of all: longing.

Light gathered in the hollow of its hands. A small bud formed, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The pulse grew stronger. Then the bud unfurled, revealing petals the color of dawn seen through tears — pale gold rimmed with trembling blue.

Flare leaned close. “Come on,” it murmured. “Breathe.”

And the flower opened its eyes.

For a long moment, neither moved. Then the flower blinked.

“Where am I?” it asked, voice thin as wind over glass. “Who…am I?”

Flare gasped. “You can talk!”

The flower flinched, startled by the sound. “And you can shout.”

Flare laughed, too loudly again, and the flower’s stem trembled. “Sorry. I’m just — no one’s ever answered me before.”

The flower frowned, or at least the center of its bloom tightened. “Then perhaps you should whisper more often. The universe prefers quiet.”

Flare’s laughter softened into awe. “You’re alive.”

The flower blinked once more. “I suppose so. Though I feel rather…hungry.”

“Hungry?”

“For warmth. For light. For whatever it is you’re made of.” The flower’s petals trembled as if reaching for Flare’s glow. “You burn. I need that.”

Flare hesitated. “You can have some,” it said finally, lowering its hand.

The flower leaned toward it greedily, drawing in the warmth until its stem brightened. “Better,” it sighed, though the word quivered with unease. “Much better.”

The days that followed were strange. Wherever Flare went, the flower tried to follow, its roots dragging through the soil in awkward jerks, its petals fluttering anxiously. And when it couldn’t move fast enough — and it never could —  it called out, panicked:

“Don’t go too far!”
“I can’t feel you when you’re over there!”
“What if I starve?”

Flare turned back, amused but touched. “You won’t starve. The light of the moon, the sun, and R Land is yours too.”

“It isn’t the same,” the flower insisted. “Yours tastes better.”

Flare chuckled. “You sound like a glutton.”

“I sound like someone who doesn’t want to fade!” the flower snapped, and then immediately wilted, ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just…when you’re not near, I feel cold. Hollow. Like the dark is nibbling at me.”

Flare’s glow softened. “Then I’ll make sure you’re never cold.”

The flower brightened, relief flooding through its stem. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

From then on, it never stopped watching Flare. Even when fed and glowing bright, its petals twitched nervously whenever Flare turned away. Its leaves quivered at every shadow. It slept fitfully, dreaming of warmth it might lose.

Flare named it Gula, from a word remembered in a dream of Earth. A word that meant a hunger that never ends.

Gula accepted the name eagerly. “It suits me,” it said, though its voice trembled. “I am always hungry.”

Flare smiled gently. “Then I’ll always feed you.”

But in the back of its mind, a small unease bloomed beside the affection.

R Land was no longer quiet. Gula talked endlessly, worries disguised as conversation.

“Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re not fading?”
“I’m sure.”
“Could you glow a little more, just in case?”
“Gula.”
“…Please?”

Flare sighed often, but secretly welcomed the noise. Loneliness had been replaced by anxiety, and somehow that was better. Where silence once pressed like a stone, now there was chatter, clumsy and alive.

And though Gula’s hunger never waned, neither did its admiration. When Flare worked, Gula gasped at every spark. When Flare rested, Gula hummed nervously until the light steadied again.

R Land, touched by their exchanges, began to change. Other plants lifted their heads higher. Leaves turned toward Flare even in shadow, following the sound of two voices instead of one. It was as if the world itself was learning to listen.

But the bond was not without strain. Flare noticed how thin Gula’s stem had grown from stretching. It absorbed energy faster than Flare could replenish. When Flare drifted too far, parts of Gula’s petals paled.

“You’re taking too much,” Flare warned gently one day. “You must learn to draw from the ground.”

“The ground is cold,” Gula whispered. “It gives me nothing.”

“It will, if you’re patient. Just look around you.”

“I don’t like patience!” The flower’s voice cracked, frantic. “When I’m hungry, the dark starts whispering. It tells me you’ll forget me.”

Flare knelt beside it, touched its petals with a flicker of warmth. “I could never forget you.”

Gula’s trembling eased, but its eyes, small, bright, always darting, never truly relaxed.

Flare realised then that hunger and fear were siblings, and both had taken root in Gula’s heart.

One orbit later, as Flare worked to shape new plants, Gula’s voice followed as usual. “You’re too far,” it called. “I can’t feel you!”

Flare tried to reassure it, but each word only seemed to deepen its panic. The more Flare created, the more Gula consumed, and the cycle left both of them weaker.

That night, Flare sat beside the first flower, the calm, wordless one that had started it all, and thought.

How do I feed Gula without draining myself? How do I let this anxious little soul feel safe?

Its eyes drifted over the scattered stones and hollowed rocks of R Land. One, shaped like a shallow bowl, glowed faintly with mineral light. An idea flickered. 

Maybe I can build Gula a vessel. Something that could hold warmth, store light, share it slowly. A home for Gula, the way R Land had been a home for me.

The thought filled Flare with new fire.

Gula noticed the change in Flare’s glow and stirred uneasily. “What are you thinking?” it asked, voice taut with suspicion.

“I’m thinking of giving you a home,” Flare replied. “Somewhere you can always feel my warmth, even when I’m far away.”

“A home?” Gula echoed, uncertain. “I have the soil. I have you.”

“But not both at once,” Flare said gently. “You deserve steadiness. Something that won’t fade when I move. Something that feeds you even when I’m gone.”

The flower’s petals trembled. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Flare smiled softly. “No, Gula. I’m just building something that loves you too.”

Gula blinked, unsure what to make of that. “Another me?”

“Not another you,” Flare said. “A guardian. A home. A place you can belong.”

It reached out and brushed Gula’s petals with a spark of warmth. “Rest now. Tomorrow, we’ll begin.”

When the Moon turned and the world dimmed, R Land’s garden slept, their colors muted under the soft glow of distant starlight. Flare stood watch over them all.

Gula, curled tightly into itself, still murmured in half-dreams. “Don’t go, stay close…it’s cold…”

Flare looked down, love and worry woven together in its gaze. Then it glanced toward the hollow stone bowl nearby that had sparked the idea.

The silence around them was not empty now. It was waiting.

Flare turned its palms upward, letting faint embers dance between them. “Tomorrow,” it whispered, “I’ll build something that can hold love.”

The Moon, ever watchful, tilted its glow in acknowledgment.

R Land exhaled, dust shifting like breath.