Morning Glory

Morning came late to the ash district. When it finally broke through the smoke, it found a single flower growing from the chest of an execution tower. Its petals were translucent, veined with toxic green light, opening and closing as if the ruined city still had a pulse. Nobody touched it. The last survivors had seen what happened to the scavengers who tried: roots entered through their hands, climbed beneath the skin, and filled their lungs with spores that sang in the dark. But every day the flower grew larger. It fed on rust, bone, and the memories trapped in the concrete below. By dawn, its glow reached across the empty streets like a signal. Not hope. Not life. A warning that something buried beneath the city had begun to bloom again.