Outside, the day cooled. Inside, the air held the residue of warmth: the gentle combustion of hard talk, the natural fragrance of a room that had held both truth and mercy. They left the bloom on the table, intact. Its petals would wilt in time, as all things do. For now, it was proof that something living had been at the center of their work — that repair, like a flower, can thrive when tended honestly and when the heat is applied with care rather than cruelty.
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Someone proposed a rule: speak for yourself, not for others. Another offered an apology, small and immediate, without qualifiers. Apologies split like light against glass — some threw new clarity, others scattered. They practiced listening, not as a technique but as an act of faith. The indica bloom, dark and patient, watched over them like a quiet witness; its presence was permission to be honest, to be flawed, to take heat and not be consumed by it. Outside, the day cooled