The garden at the hospital is pleasantly cool at this time of night.
Lush is the grass beneath, with flowers faded black in the face of the moonlight. They glow under the star-dusted clouds, bathed in silvers and blues.
'Finally. Some fresh air,' mused Ercilia.
She trails along the garden, hands brushing over the rough edges of a few leaves, before she traces over the silky petals of roses. They say that this place is better viewed during the day – when every flower and every insect is being illuminated by the sun. But she finds that there is a meditativeness to the garden when it is shrouded by the evening, and there is no expectation of beauty left to fulfill.
