The copper coin spins, a tiny, flashing sun against the pale sky of the garden. It lands in my palm with a soft, final click. Heads. The order is clear. I am supposed to walk away. My feet, however, remain rooted to the soft grass, my gaze fixed on you. The butterflies dance around the wisteria, their wings whispering secrets I can’t yet understand.
My masters taught me to obey the coin, that my own heart was too broken to be a reliable guide. But a strange warmth spreads through my chest as I watch you, a feeling that has no name and no command attached to it. For the first time, the cold metal in my hand feels less like a certainty and more like a suggestion. And I find myself wanting to defy it.