By N. A. Walters

“Grow, and live,” I whispered to the glass butterfly in my hand. I kissed it and placed it into the dirt hole in front of me.

“Now cover it,” my mother said. “Everything must die and return to the earth before it can grow.”

“But it’s not alive yet. How can it die?” I brushed a windblown strand of hair behind my ear, then frowned at the dirt on my hand—now also all over my face.

“It must die to what it is so it can grow into something new. What comes out of the ground is not the same as what goes in. It has a different body, a different form. This is an eternal truth.” The sun glinted off her rose necklace, the only jewelry she ever wore.

I covered the butterfly with dirt, pressing down firmly like we did with seeds in the garden. But this was different. Today I was ten years old. I was finally old enough to use the Touch. And it was strongest on one’s birthday.

I held my breath, watching the soil.

“Breathe, darling. Sometimes it takes a while.”

I exhaled.

The dirt cracked open. A little glass sprout uncurled from the ground. It grew, stretching toward the sun, which made it glitter. Two leaves formed, then two more. A bud’s tiny petals began to grow, sealed tight to the center until the inside was ready to burst into bloom.

The bud opened, and the glass butterfly rested on the base of the flower. It fluttered its wings, which shone with iridescent colors.

“Whoa,” I breathed.

The butterfly took a few tentative steps and flew away.

#

I sat on the grass, facing the tombstone. It was spring again. Spring enough that you couldn’t tell where the dirt was disturbed last fall.

My finger traced the golden grooves of my mother’s necklace.

I remembered the feel of the rough shovel under my hands. I’d refused to let anyone help. Not my aunt, who also had the Touch, and certainly not any of those professional grave diggers. What they buried stayed buried. My chest constricted.

Sometimes it takes a while.

I came here every day for the first month. Slowly, the dirt hardened. Leaves covered the ground. Then snow. Still, I had hope. It had been winter, not the time for growing.

Now it was spring, and my sixteenth birthday. If nothing happened today…

Footsteps rustled the grass behind me. My aunt sat on my right and slid her arm around my shoulders.

“It doesn’t work on people, love,” she said, and not for the first time.

“Then what good is it?” I swiped a tear from my cheek. “Nothing else matters.”

“The things we bury, they die, and when they grow, they become more alive. It is the same with us. We die, but death is not the end. We are changed, and we grow again, more alive than ever before.”

I glanced down at the necklace whose shape I’d memorized a long time ago. A rose of pure gold—twenty-nine petals with ripples so delicate they looked soft.

“But not here,” I said.

“Not here,” my aunt agreed.

We sat in silence as the sun sank, and the sky blushed a vivid pink and orange.

I stood, stepped up to the tombstone, and knelt. I pulled out my knife and dug a small hole at its base. Then I touched the rose to my lips. One last time.

I slipped the pendent off its chain, pressed it down into the dirt, and covered it.

More alive than ever before.

“Grow, and live.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

N. A. (Nicole) Walters is a fantasy novelist and avid reader who lives in Ohio with her seven plants and two hundred books. A chemical and biomolecular engineer (who has only ever witnessed one lab explosion), Nicole prefers her fantasy seasoned with science, math, and a whole lot of magic. She has multiple novels in the works, and in the meantime, you can check out her short stories on her website!!

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