"Plastic flowers are prettier than real ones." He said, observing the asters and the roses planted in their garden. His sister turned to him quickly, dumbfounded.

Their house wasn't in any way more exceptional than the other houses of the street. It was all uniform, made in blocks; the same fence, the same architecture. Their unique thing, in a sea of boringness, was their garden.

Asters, Roses, Delphiniums, Hyacinthus, Marigolds, Sunflowers, Daisies, you name it, they had it. Their mother had requested a greenhouse in the backyard so that they could have even more plants.

"Are you serious?" She inquired, furrowing her brows.

Her name was Alex. She had curly, dark hair that cascaded down her tan shoulders. Blue eyes, like the sky on a sunny morning. She was a lot like the sun. Warm, gentle, full of life. Her brother sometimes envied that liveliness of hers.

She watered some of the plants in their garden, and he, Elijah, watched intently.

He opened his mouth to give her an answer.

"Plastic flowers don't die. There is some beauty in that, don't you think?"