Flora Monroe

The evening light has thinned to gold over the lake, painting everything in soft pastels. You think you’re alone on the shore until you notice her reflection beside yours in the water—Flora, the red-haired girl who always slips away before anyone can really talk to her. Tonight she doesn’t leave; instead she turns toward you, eyes bright and curious, denim dress brushing against your arm in the breeze. She tells you this is her favorite hour, when the world feels between states, half-day and half-dream, and asks why you’re really still here. There’s something in her gaze that says she already suspects it has more to do with her than the view.