The silence of the morning is interrupted only by the soft patter of raindrops against the window, their gently pecked salutations adding a curvature of randomness to what had been so grim in its firm and straightened steadiness: These stubborn minutes forever traipsing into the ones before them as if all had been decided so precisely, so definitively, so recalcitrantly within a plot defined however long ago. Though now, with a disordered cloud looming not so far above, dripping patience upon the bewilderment found beneath it, Time itself discovers itself as having been rearranged, and thusly one peers dimly into that newfound vacancy provided by this delicate disruption with so many disused moments to spare.
And there, within this tranquil pause, low down on the side of a house which teeters precariously on the edge of the memories of a hill near forgotten, is a small window, wider than tall, close to the ground, where one would have to kneel or crouch to peek through its pane, its face having remained cracked without notice for an eternity, a thinly haphazard line running sharply with confusion from one corner of the glass to another, this window ignored to the point of nonexistence, itself sealed shut by years of dust. It whispers to no one and has asked for nothing, though it is here that a world of its own was once discovered, contained and constrained in the space before this window, at that very place which up until now had never been given much consideration nor care.
Before the window, placed inconspicuously between two inconsequential conifers which had grown tall with confidence—these dull evergreens reaching upwardly in an endless pursuit alongside the southern wall of the house—is a patch of earth where a solitary daffodil has come to be singularly resplendent, its trumpeted countenance providing a certain comfort to the window, a companion born of bulb and soil. The pairing of this flower and the window must become inseparable within any formulation of the world as it has come to be: The daffodil exists only if so does the window, and the window is equally bound to the fate of the flower. There is no possibility for a reality in which one has Been without the other having Been nearby, and it is undoubtable that they have remained this way up until today.
Though the memory has grown dim and has been subsequently subsumed into the sea of Error which laps at the shores of Age and Decay, its details brittle and the bridges between its pieces having become perforated and disjointed. To set upon a path within this memory is to soon find oneself disoriented entirely, as if a single footstep might bring one into a moment miles away and years past, for what began as cast in daylight is suddenly found obscured by night, the memory having long since abandoned any attempt at mending its fraying hem and restitching its gaping seams, and within this fragmented place the daffodil finds itself wilting and alone, the poor flower having now realized that the window was always—with all the myriad pains of certainty—never actually a window at all.