The Garden of Lorn’ka

The orange sky of Elora filtered through the shifting foliage of wind-trees, casting unstable, dancing shadows on the ground. Matt and Sehr’mana had been traveling together for several days, crossing valleys, marshes, and strange forests. Since their escape after the attack by hostile Shivenars, the landscape had grown calmer, almost soothing. For the first time in a long while, the young human began to feel a sense of peace settling in.
They walked along a gentle ridge overlooking a sea of iridescent grass. The ground vibrated faintly beneath their steps, as if veins of light pulsed through it. Suddenly, a strange hum filled the air—not aggressive, but a soft harmony, like a musical vibration. The sound grew quickly, forming a chorus of floating notes, suspended like sonic pollen.
Sehr’mana halted, listening intently. She briefly closed her eyes, then turned to Matt, murmuring with solemnity:
— "Lorn’ka…"
— "Lorn… what?" Matt asked, intrigued.
She gestured for him to follow, stepping over spongy roots toward a gentle slope leading into a clearing. What he saw next took his breath away.
The ground, covered entirely in low plants, pulsed to the rhythm of the song they heard. Large crystalline flowers, as wide as bowls, slowly unfurled their petals, revealing a gleaming core like a small liquid mirror. Each emitted a distinct note, weaving an enchanting melody together.
Matt approached, mesmerized.
— "It’s incredible… It’s like nature is singing."
Sehr’mana knelt beside one of the flowers, resting her hand gently on a translucent petal.
Instantly, a soft light emerged from the plant. A blurry image appeared in the air, formed of mist and reflections, like a primitive hologram. Matt recognized the scene—a young Shivenar, Sehr’mana as a child, running through a field in light rain. She laughed, pursued by a six-legged creature, somewhere between a rabbit and a salamander.
— "Is that… your memory?" he asked in awe.
She nodded silently.
Matt hesitated, then carefully reached out and touched one of the flowers.
A luminous surge followed. Matt saw a boy—himself—racing through a green and golden earthly field. Beside him, a laughing girl—his younger sister. They were tossing a worn frisbee back and forth. The scene was silent, yet the emotion was unmistakable. A wave of nostalgia washed over him.
— "But… how is this possible?"
Sehr’mana, her gaze soft, whispered:
— "Lorn’ka draavi kumarei the’lun zelvar."
He didn’t understand it all, but he knew "zelvar" meant spirit.
Matt stood still, throat tight. He felt exposed, vulnerable… but also deeply at peace. These flowers weren’t dangerous. They were witnesses.
— "And they sing our memories?"
— "Ash," Sehr’mana responded, unsure of his exact question.
They lingered in the clearing for a long time. Each flower touched revealed a memory, as if Elora itself wanted to ensure they weren’t forgotten. Matt saw his mentor Rudy, smiling beside his pregnant wife. He saw his friends—Ken, Sébastien, Isabella—laughing around a campfire, sharing a pizza, arguing over which movie to watch. The memories felt so close, so alive, that his eyes welled up.
Sehr’mana, too, projected scenes from her people. Ancient rituals around a blue fire, deep-throated chants, an elderly Shivenar with an algae-covered beard resting a hand on her head. One image appeared repeatedly—her, kneeling before an assembly, rejected, the harsh faces of the elders turned against her.
Matt understood without words.
The pain. The exile.
Yet, in this clearing, there was no judgment, no resentment. Only echoes. Reflections of souls.
They eventually lay back on the soft grass, eyes turned toward Elora’s twin skies. One sun had already dipped below the horizon, while the other bathed everything in golden light.
— "Do you think… these flowers are aware?" Matt asked.
Sehr’mana shrugged.
— "Maybe," she said, her accent coloring the word.
Matt sighed.
— "It feels like a dream. A living dream. If I had to choose a place to spend my final days… it would be here."
She turned her head toward him, holding his gaze.
The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of the Lorn’ka.
Before leaving, Matt plucked a flower that did not react—a dormant Lorn’ka. He wrapped it in a protective leaf and placed it in his bag.
— "So I remember… that this was real."
Sehr’mana gave him a bittersweet smile.
— "Ish ta Poli’ama," she said, as if to reassure him.
They left the clearing, quieter than before, as if stepping away from a temple. Matt felt he had touched something sacred—not just a plant, but a part of himself.
And as the grass sealed their path behind them, he swore he would never forget the song of the Lorn’ka.