03-26-2020, 01:45 AM
Philip blinked, humorously unimpressed. “Moths? You’re naming me after moths?” His brows spiked high. For as insightful and resonant her soul, he had to say that he was expecting something else. Like most gifts, there were some he considered his favorites while others were quite confusing, but he rejected none. He wasn’t inclined to continue dwelling on what attributes of a moth she saw in him, so he took to a walk, assuming her company would follow.
After a short distance, the bubbling of a stream pricked their ears. Naturally, a sense of wariness settled as he approached. The last river that caught his attention literally swept them away with the blink of an eye. What may rise from this one remained to be seen. Until such time, he paused at the meager bank and studied the little undulations, bubbles, and ripples. The bottom of the stream was lined with pebbles. For no particular reason, he knelt and snatched one from the middle of the water. The stream was pleasantly cool, though the atmosphere was bereft of any discernable climate.
The rock turned over in his hand, and for a moment, the clothes on his back shifted to a white button-down shirt, halfway undone, swim trunks and sandals. By the time he was standing once more, the attire rearranged to the previously adorned track suit. He seemed oblivious to the flickering. The rock was unimpressive except perhaps for its smoothness.
He offered the trinket to Nimeda, and as he did, he asked a question. ”What happened to your hand?”
After a short distance, the bubbling of a stream pricked their ears. Naturally, a sense of wariness settled as he approached. The last river that caught his attention literally swept them away with the blink of an eye. What may rise from this one remained to be seen. Until such time, he paused at the meager bank and studied the little undulations, bubbles, and ripples. The bottom of the stream was lined with pebbles. For no particular reason, he knelt and snatched one from the middle of the water. The stream was pleasantly cool, though the atmosphere was bereft of any discernable climate.
The rock turned over in his hand, and for a moment, the clothes on his back shifted to a white button-down shirt, halfway undone, swim trunks and sandals. By the time he was standing once more, the attire rearranged to the previously adorned track suit. He seemed oblivious to the flickering. The rock was unimpressive except perhaps for its smoothness.
He offered the trinket to Nimeda, and as he did, he asked a question. ”What happened to your hand?”
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