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The Ovatifolia drifts into view of your shuttle. The ship is just as large and impressive as most, but it drifts almost aimlessly among the twinkling stars of far-off worlds. The lights shine less brightly than other Affini ships, and in a world where all the ships run quiet, she is deathly silent.
It is the first ship of its kind constructed with Terrans in mind and you are among the very first to visit it. You fear you will rebloom before you carry out this solemn task, but you know it must be done. You know that you can do it. For them.
You cradle your floret, your first dear little floret, in your lap, your vines lovingly swadling them. Your precious little treasure. Your core aches as you look down at them. For a moment, as you look down at their adorable, peaceful face, it’s almost like they're sleeping.
They once called it ‘the big sleep’. You will make sure it is a comfortable one.
Your shuttle enters the docking bay and you sit in silence, still looking down at them. You can’t help but remember the first time you carried them home from floret daycare. The way they sank into your vines, and into sleep just as easily. You remember the feeling in your core, in your vines, as you think of the fingerpaint portrait they painted of you that day. The way you hung it on the compiler as soon as you returned home, to your home, to their home, together. You know that it will remain there until time crumbles to cosmic dust.
You remember the first time they called you their affini. The first time you carried them, fed them, bathed them, the first time that you were the first person they went to for help. Each of these memories and so many more twist like thorns around your core, but you wouldn’t trade what those feelings and those memories for anything.
Maybe one thing, you look down at their tiny, helpless form.
Eventually, you find the will to stand. The will to carry them, one last time.
You descend the shuttle’s ramp slowly and are greeted by another affini in the otherwise silent hangar. “Hello,” he speaks softly, “I am Mors Curator, Thirty-Second Bloom, He/Him, the caretaker of the Ovatifolia .”
You don’t look up from your little one. You can’t bear to.
“It is regretful that we must meet under such sorrowful circumstances.”
“It is,” you say softly.
“You have my deepest, most sincere condolences,” he remains in the same spot.
“Thank you.”
“When you feel ready, please follow me.”
He stands there as you hold them for what feels like hours standing still yourself aside from the gentle, instinctive rippling of your vines against their skin and their dress. The beautiful dress they picked out for this occasion. You can’t help but smile as you remember the way they called it their ‘party dress’.
You steady yourself before looking up at Mors and begin the longest walk in all of your blooms.
The heart of the ship opens before you, a dim warm light radiating from the sunline along the central pillar. It illuminates a beautiful, peaceful garden stretching as far as a meadow full of native Terran flora. You think that they would have liked it, as you follow Mors down a path through the center.
You clutch your treasure close as you gaze at row upon row of stasis units, crafted with utmost care. Let it never be said that the affini do not prepare. You know that one day the entire ship will be occupied, and another will be constructed in its stead, but now is not the time for those thoughts. You follow Mors until he stops and bows his head to you.
Unit AAAA-0009. The designation is small, almost invisible at the bottom of the stasis unit. Their name, duplicated from the form you filled out, is emblazoned on the door of the unit much more prominently. It even includes the little heart that your precious little treasure drew next to their name. The heart that they drew next to their name each and every time you signed it for them.
Your core weeps as you draw closer until Mors activates the unit, the inside sliding out like a drawer to reveal a place of rest. A cushioned, luxurious bed covered in a sheet of their favorite color. You steady yourself again as you reach into your own form with a few vines and carefully produce your little one’s pillows and fluff them just the way they always liked before placing them at the head of the bed.
Your core twists in your chest, swelling as it rebels against what you know you must do.
It feels like ages, a millenia, before you are finally able to do it. You lower your precious little treasure into the bed and once they are resting in your vines with their head on their pillows, you allow your vines to detach. They gently wrap around them and swaddle them in their timeless slumber. You will be with them forever, just as they will be with you.
Mors stands patiently as you first remove their blanket from the space inside your body, unfurling it and draping it across them as you did every night. It really is almost like they're just sleeping.
You place their favorite stuffed creature beside them, their stuffed xenra Zenny. You remember how they clung to it when you first gave it to them, how dearly they held it. How they feared xenras when they first arrived and how they thanked you for giving them Zenny and helping them conquer that fear. How they thanked you for everything you did for them. And how they thanked you again, for everything, at the end.
Your vine takes a Cassian apple from inside, cores it, and cuts it into eight slices. You place it, as well as a box of pinella juice on their other side. It would not do well to leave your floret without their favorite snack. You try not to think about how you will never wipe away the juice running down their chin again.
After standing there for a long time, thinking about all the things you said to them, all the things they said to you, all the things you didn’t need to say to each other but knew, you lean down. You kiss them on the forehead, just as you did every night.
“Goodnight, my precious little treasure. Sleep tight. I will see you again when the sun rises.”