Her chest rose and fell as steadily as water lapping against the shore, constant, rhythmic. Although it wasn't cold, her breath still hung in a wreath above her head, half-frozen, a piece of her death that had followed her to the afterlife.
Flowerpetal had never truly lived. Even in life, she had been stagnant, frozen in place long before the Mistwalker's attack.
But standing face to face with her daughter, she seemed to come to life.
"Why?" She asked, her voice soft. Why are you sorry? Why did you do what you did?
Swanpetal's words and actions, her anger, her hatred, had been heartbreaking, but Flowerpetal couldn't bring herself to dislike her daughter for it. If anything, she blamed herself. If she had only been stronger, wiser, she could've stayed in the Forest and been there for her daughter when she needed her the most.
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