The frost bloom, a symbol of renewal and life. The blooming of a singular flower that occurs once every ten years.
“What is it, mama?”
“It’s a miracle, baby. Just like you.”
❆
Lark let out a shaky huff, rubbing her arms as she shivered in the cold air of autumn. Stepping out of the train, she looked up at a sign that read “Sanctuary,” written in big, inviting letters. With trembling hands, she lifted her camera up to her eyes long enough to take a photo. “Frost bloom. That’s all. Then I’ll be back in my warm, cozy apartment. Just two more weeks,” Lark whispered to herself as she entered the small town.
The town was reminiscent of the stories Lark’s mother would tell her as a young child. This was her mother’s hometown, after all. Wooden buildings worn with age, the obvious lack of cars, or even streets, and the lingering scent of damp wood filling the air. Looking around now, Lark felt a sense of peace wash over her. It was a calming place, a stark contrast to the bustling city she had just come from. Her head whipped around as she tried to take in all the unfamiliar sights.
Until she crashed into someone.
“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you!” Lark stammered. “I was just admiring the town, and, you know, I…” She trailed off, looking up and meeting the stranger’s eyes. They had on an unreadable expression, and for a moment Lark thought she had bumped into a cardboard cutout of a person.
But then the person spoke, “It’s alright.” They regarded Lark, who shifted uncomfortably under their rather intense gaze, internally praying they weren’t judging her. “Just got here, I assume?” They asked, to which Lark nodded.
“I’m here for the frost bloom. Have you ever heard of it?”
The stranger visibly perked up at that. “The frost bloom? Not many people know about it.” They hummed. “Walk with me? I’ll show you around town.” They offered, holding their hand out.
Lark hesitated. Stranger danger, right? Then again, it would be nice to have a friend in a new place like this. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in the stranger’s. “Sure. I’m Lark.”
“Noir. Nice to meet you, Lark.”
❆
Noir was… an enigma, to say the least.
They were a skilled glassblower, Lark quickly learned, with a passion for making intricate pieces out of glass. Noir had shown Lark pictures of their pieces, and it was an understatement to say she was impressed. Somehow, they had managed to create images Lark never thought could be created with glass, of all mediums. Images that captured raw elegance, emotion, beauty in it’s purest form. Lark made a mental note to see Noir’s pieces in person.
“What about you, Lark? What do you do?” Noir asked, looking more than ready to steer the conversation away from themselves.
Lark smiled wryly, looking down at the camera that hung from her neck. “I’m just an office worker. Nothing as special as you.” She fidgeted with the lens, zooming in and out on nothing in particular. “I document stuff as a hobby.” Noir said nothing in response, stuffing their hands into their pockets.
Lark had noticed that too. Noir was quiet. Sometimes eerily so. They went quiet in times when there shouldn’t be silence.
But Lark had no right to judge. Maybe Noir was just introverted? She cleared her throat, “So, I had an idea.” Lark smiled brightly. “You said you used to do commissions, yes?” When Noir nodded, she continued, “Well, what if I commissioned you to make the frost bloom out of glass? You looked pretty interested in it earlier, so I assume you know what it looks like…”
Again, Noir seemed to brighten at the mention of the frost bloom. “Yes… The frost bloom. Of course I know what it looks like.” They nodded thoughtfully. “You want me to make a glass replica of the frost bloom? Yes, yes… I can do that.”
Lark grinned. “Great! How much do I owe you?”
Noir stopped walking. They looked up at the night sky for a moment, before meeting Lark’s eyes again. “Nothing, lamb.”
-
Lark stood in front of a building that was nestled in the far corner of the town. The building had an ominous look to it, making her feel as if she wasn’t supposed to be there. Taking a deep breath, she tentatively raised her hand, giving the door a few quick raps.
Seconds later, the door slowly opened. Noir stood inside, looking down at Lark with a blank yet slightly surprised expression. “You’re here,” They said, more as a statement than a question. Lark nodded, finding herself unable to meet Noir’s gaze. Noir regarded Lark for a moment before stepping aside. “Come in.”
As Lark entered the building, her eyes widened at the sight before her.
It was empty, aside from the glassblowing equipment in the far corner of the studio and the mattress and desk in the opposite corner. It was… underwhelming. “It’s very… spacious in here,” Lark mumbled, eyeing the strange emptiness of the studio as she approached the glassblowing equipment. “Where are all your pieces?”
Noir didn’t reply for a moment, hovering by the door before closing it quietly. They cleared their throat after a few moments, walking over to stand by Lark. “They’re… not here,” They murmured, crossing their arms over their chest.
Lark blinked in confusion, looking up at Noir. “Oh, like, they’re stored somewhere else?”
Shaking their head, Noir gave Lark a faint smile. “They’re gone.”
Lark swore she felt a chill run down her spine. “Gone? What do you…?” She trailed off when Noir abruptly turned away, and she knew she wouldn’t be getting a response. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the glassblowing equipment. This corner of the room was cluttered compared to the rest of the studio– messy, in an organized way, like everything had its own place and definitely shouldn’t be touched.
Humming to herself, Lark walked over to the desk, seeing various sketches of what she assumed were Noir’s works. She saw a few familiar ones, some that she had seen when Noir showed her photos. The drawings caught her eye, and she lifted her camera up to her eyes to take a photo, and–
“Lamb.” Noir suddenly spoke up, causing Lark to let go of her camera. Lark watched, her heart dropping, as the old camera crashed to the ground, breaking like nothing as it hit the cement.
Slowly kneeling, Lark felt a somewhat empty sense of sadness wash over her as she took in the sight of her broken camera. It was her father’s, before he… Lark shook her head. Looking up at Noir, she plastered a sheepish smile on her face. “Huh?”
Noir stared down at the broken camera. “Nothing.”
❆
Lark entered Noir’s studio. She found herself visiting often when she wasn’t exploring the town. She’d already befriended a lot of the townspeople, a lot of the older folk claiming they knew her mother.
Without looking up from the kiln, Noir called out, “Hey, lamb.”
Lark smiled, walking up to stand close behind Noir. “Hi,” She murmured.
“Don’t get too close,” Noir warned, glancing over their shoulder at Lark. “And wear goggles.”
Lark chuckled, stepping away to grab the extra pair of goggles Noir had bought for her the other day. Putting them on, she walked back over to Noir. “What’re you working on?” She hummed. Lark found it tempting to step closer, put her head on Noir’s shoulder, maybe wrap her arms around them…
“The frost bloom,” Noir answered. “It’s in a few days, if I’m correct?”
Lark froze. Right. The frost bloom. She’d see it, then… Then what? She’d leave? Just like that? Leave the town she’d grown so accustomed to at this point? Leave… Noir?
Her thoughts were interrupted when Noir spoke, “Lamb? It’s in a few days, yes?” They had put the blowpipe down, turning their attention to Lark.
Lark shook her head. “Huh? Oh, yeah. It’s this Sunday. At midnight,” She answered, forcing a smile.
Noir’s eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly. They turned around to face Lark. “Is something wrong?” They asked, their voice carrying a hint of concern. “You went quiet for a moment there.”
Shaking her head, Lark let out a nervous laugh. “Of course not? Why would anything be wrong? I- I was just thinking about the frost bloom. It’s so… close. So exciting, right? Like, it’s going to happen so soon, and I’ll leave, and–”
Lark’s rambling was cut off when a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her, pulling her close. “Noir..?” She breathed out, looking up. Noir held Lark tighter.
“You’re worried about leaving, aren’t you?” Noir murmured. “Don’t worry, lamb. If it’s me you’re worried about, don’t worry. I’ve been alone for years until now. I can handle being alone a lot longer.” When Lark opened her mouth to protest, Noir silenced her with a firm look.
“Okay, Noir.” Lark whispered, melting into Noir’s embrace. “Okay.”
❆
“Why do you call me ‘lamb’?” Lark asked. She was curled up on Noir’s bed, watching as they heated up a piece of glass in the kiln.
Noir didn’t answer for a moment. “No reason.”
Lark shifted so she was lying on her side, facing Noir. She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe that. Tell me why.”
“No reason,” Noir repeated, taking the glass out of the kiln.
Lark huffed, knowing Noir wasn’t going to answer anytime soon. She stood up, pacing around the studio aimlessly. She stopped at Noir’s desk, sitting down. Curiously, she sifted through the piles of paper placed haphazardly around the desk. She paused when she spotted something.
Lark glanced over at Noir, who seemed busy enough shaping the heated blob of glass, then turned back to the desk. Underneath a pile of drawings was a newspaper, yellowed with time.
The main article was dated to ten years ago. The headline read: “Prodigy or Saboteur? Rising Glassblower Destroys Masterpiece at Gala.” Below the headline, a photo of Noir— much younger but unmistakably them, their intense gaze captured mid-demonstration.
Lark freezes, her heart skipping a beat. As she reached out to grab the newspaper, Noir spoke up, “What are you doing, lamb?” Frantically, She set the pile of drawings back down on top of the newspaper, turning to look at Noir with a nervous smile.
“Nothing!” Lark exclaimed, busying herself with straightening the piles of paper.
Noir stared at Lark for a moment, their expression unreadable, before turning back towards the kiln.
❆
Lark couldn’t stop her curiosity from lingering.
When Noir left to buy more materials, Lark stood up from the bed, walking back over to the desk, grabbing the newspaper. As she was about to open it, she hesitated. What if this was a piece of Noir’s history they didn’t want anyone knowing about? What if she was looking for something she shouldn’t be?
Then again, if it was something bad, Lark felt like she deserved to know.
Lark looked back down at the newspaper. “Rising Glassblower Destroys Masterpiece at Gala…” She quietly read aloud. Lark suddenly didn’t feel like reading anymore, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what she was about to see in the article..
Taking a deep breath, Lark opened her eyes again, and began to read:
“Last night’s much-anticipated unveiling at the annual Galerie Solstice Gala ended in shock and controversy when Noir Vale, a rising star in the glassblowing world, deliberately destroyed their own centerpiece creation.
The piece, titled Ephemeral Grace, was a sprawling glass sculpture that reportedly took over a year to complete. Measuring nearly ten feet in diameter, the sculpture featured interlocking floral and geometric patterns rendered in impossibly fine detail, each element glowing with carefully layered colors. Witnesses described it as “otherworldly” and “a triumph of artistry and engineering.”
But the triumph was short-lived. Moments after the audience erupted in applause, Vale stepped forward with a mallet, smashing the sculpture with a single, calculated swing.
The audience was stunned into silence, with some spectators visibly distressed by the act. Shards of glass rained down like frozen tears, catching the gallery lights in a cruel parody of the sculpture’s former beauty.
When questioned, Vale offered only a cryptic explanation: “True beauty is fleeting. To let it linger would make it a lie.”
The fallout was immediate. Patrons and critics alike expressed outrage, calling the act “an insult to art” and “a betrayal of trust.” Esteemed collector Annette Holloway, who had intended to purchase the piece for her private collection, stated, “This wasn’t art. It was destruction disguised as meaning.”
Others defended Vale’s actions, claiming that the destruction was itself a form of art. “It challenges us to rethink our attachment to permanence,” said Professor Henry Albrecht, an art historian specializing in avant-garde movements.
The incident has left Vale’s career in question. Once celebrated as a prodigy redefining modern glasswork, they now face canceled commissions and a fractured reputation. The gallery has since issued a statement distancing itself from the act, calling it “deeply disappointing and contrary to our values.”
Vale has declined further comment, retreating from the public eye.
The question remains: Was this a bold artistic statement, or the reckless act of someone who values philosophy over the trust of their supporters?
Either way, one thing is clear—Vale’s Ephemeral Grace will live on, not in its creation, but in the memory of its destruction.”
Lark stares at the words, their chest tightening. Why would Noir do something like that? After how much Noir talked about their work, anyone would’ve thought… Did Noir really love their work as much as they made it seem like? Was that why their studio was empty? Did they always…
Lark froze. She thought of the glass flower Noir was making for her, the care in every curve of its fragile petals. Is it a gift—or another experiment in transience?
“What are you doing?”
Lark jumped, the paper slipping from her hands. Noir stood in the doorway, a crate of sand balanced on their hip. Their face was unreadable, but their voice held an edge of steel.
“I…” Lark stammered, glancing at the paper on the floor, then back at Noir, her heart racing. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to snoop?” Noir cut in, setting the crate down with deliberate care. They stepped closer, picking up the crumpled article. For a moment, they stared at it in silence, the lines of their face hardening.
“I was waiting, and it just—” Lark trailed off. She took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She couldn’t help but ask, unable to stop the anger and betrayal from seeping into her voice as she thought back to the article.
Noir exhaled sharply. “Because it doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Lark shot to her feet, tears stinging her eyes. “You destroyed something people loved. People who believed in you. How could you do that? How could you just…” She faltered, her voice breaking. “How could you throw it all away?”
Noir’s gaze softened, the tension in their shoulders melting away. They stepped closer, cautiously, as if approaching a frightened animal. “Lark…”
“No.” Lark backed away, wiping at their eyes. “Don’t. You don’t get to act like it’s fine. You hurt people, Noir. You—” Her voice cracked again, and she couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know,” Noir said softly. “I know I did.”
They reached out, hesitating before pulling Lark gently into an embrace. Lark resisted for a moment before collapsing against them, sobbing into their shoulder.
“I was selfish,” Noir murmured. “I thought I was making a statement, but all I did was destroy something that meant the world to others. I’ve lived with that every day since.”
“Then why?” Lark whispered.
Noir pulled back just enough to meet their gaze. “Because I believed beauty should be fleeting. That holding onto it too tightly kills it.” They sighed, brushing a strand of hair from Lark’s face. “But I didn’t understand back then that some things are worth holding onto, no matter the risk.”
Lark’s tears slowed, but her chest ached. “And now? Do you still believe that?”
Noir’s silence stretched, their answer clear in the absence of words.
“No, lamb.” Noir murmured, their hold tightening around Lark ever so slightly, burying their face in the woman’s hair. “No, I don’t.”
Could she believe Noir? The incident was ten years ago, after all… Maybe they’ve changed? Lark sighed softly, leaning into Noir’s embrace.
“Okay, Noir. I trust you.”
❆
Grinning, Lark enthusiastically knocked at the door to Noir’s studio, her breath visible in the cold winter air. She was practically bouncing on her feet as she waited for Noir to answer.
It only took a few minutes for the door to open this time. Noir stepped out, a glint in their eyes as they looked at Lark. “Are you ready, lamb?” They nodded, their voice warm.
Lark nodded fervently. “So ready,” She answered, her voice a breathy laugh. Noir gave her the slightest smile. They reached out, gently taking Lark’s hand in theirs, intertwining their fingers. Lark’s cheeks turned a light pink– and it wasn’t from the cold.
Noir gave Lark’s hand a light squeeze. “Let’s go.”
❆
The night is bitterly cold, the kind that burns through even the thickest layers. A frost-laden silence blankets the coastal town as Noir and Lark walk together under a pale, silver moon. Their breaths form clouds that dissipate into the still air. Despite the chill, Lark feels a flicker of warmth—the kind that only comes from being close to someone who matters.
They reach the clearing where the frost bloom is rumored to appear. It’s an unassuming patch of earth surrounded by gnarled trees and frozen grass. Lark kneels, brushing away the thin layer of frost covering the ground, her gloved fingers trembling.
As the minutes pass, an eerie glow begins to illuminate the clearing. The frost bloom emerges slowly, its petals of crystalline white unfurling as though it drinks the moonlight. Its beauty is otherworldly, fragile and perfect. Lark watches, breathless, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“This is it,” Lark whispers, her voice shaking with awe. “This is why I came here.”
Noir, standing slightly behind, watches not the flower but Lark. Their gaze is unreadable—part admiration, part something darker.
After several moments of reverence, Lark pulls out a notebook and sketchbook, capturing the bloom’s ephemeral beauty with hurried strokes, desperate to immortalize the moment, despite the loss of her camera.
Noir, meanwhile, opens a small, cloth-covered box they’ve brought with them. Inside is the glass replica of the frost bloom, so lifelike it seems to shimmer in the moonlight. Noir carefully sets it next to the real flower.
“This is for you, lamb,” Noir says, voice quiet but tinged with pride, and something Lark couldn’t identify. “It’s not the same, but it’ll last.”
Lark stares at the glass flower, tears welling in her eyes again. “It’s beautiful. You...you captured it perfectly.” She reached out but hesitated, as if touching it might ruin its perfection.
The two sit in silence, the frost bloom and its glass counterpart glowing softly in the moonlit clearing. For a moment, Lark feels as if she’s found something eternal in this fleeting, fragile world.
But the peace didn’t last.
As the frost bloom begins to wither with the rising sun, Noir abruptly stands and picks up the glass flower. Before Lark can say anything…
Noir raises it high and smashes it against a nearby rock.
The sound is sharp, shattering the stillness like a gunshot. Shards of glass scatter across the frosted ground, glinting like broken stars. Lark gasps, her eyes wide as a feeling of dread settles deep within her, watching as what had seemed like the most beautiful creation she’s ever seen is destroyed right before her eyes.
“Why?” Lark screams, their voice raw.
Noir doesn’t flinch. “Nothing perfect should be allowed to linger,” they said coldly, standing perfectly still as they looked down at Lark, not a hint of regret or even pride on their face.
Lark stares at Noir, her heart breaking as the truth settles in. “This wasn’t… You never…” Her voice broke, anger seeping through between the sadness. “You lied.”
“I didn’t lie.” Noir snaps, their voice sharp. They turned around, facing away from Lark. “You wanted something beautiful. I gave it to you.”
Clenching her fists, Lark cried out, “I wanted something eternal! Something that would last forever, like I thought we…” She trailed off, tears falling down her face. “That’s it, isn’t it? This whole thing, it wasn’t real. You were using me for your art, weren’t you? You betrayed me, you–!”
“I didn’t betray anyone,” Noir cut her off coldly.
“You’re a liar!” Lark blurted out, her face practically red and her head spinning with anger, sadness, betrayal. “Why? Why do you do this? Why do you destroy everything you work so hard to create, and betraying everyone who believes in you?”
Noir’s expression hardened. “I didn’t betray anyone.” They repeated. “It wasn’t betrayal, it was honesty. I gave them something real, even if they hated it. Perfection doesn’t belong in this world. It’s a lie we tell ourselves to feel safe. I was just reminding people of the truth.”
Lark steps back, feeling a chill settle in her chest. “Is that what you did with me? I’m just another piece of your ‘honesty’ that you shattered, aren’t I?”
For a moment, Emery’s mask slips, revealing something raw—fear, perhaps, or regret. But just as quickly, they retreat into their usual stoicism. “You wanted me to make a replica of the frost bloom, and I made it. That’s all this ever was.”
Lark’s throat tightened. Without another word, she turned and walked away.
❆
Lark’s life has settled into a rhythm, though it’s a hollow imitation of the vibrant existence she once knew. She’s returned to her small apartment in the city, throwing herself back into her work as a way to fill the emptiness Noir left behind.
The frost bloom has become a ghost in Lark’s mind—a memory so vivid it almost feels like a dream. She avoids thinking about Noir, burying the pain beneath layers of work and routine.
On a gray, drizzling morning, Lark comes home from the university to find a package waiting by her door. It’s small, unassuming, and wrapped in plain brown paper. There’s no return address, but the handwriting on the label stops Lark cold.
Noir’s handwriting.
For a moment, Lark considers leaving it untouched– maybe even throwing it away. But curiosity and unresolved emotions pull her in. She carries it inside and set it gently on the table, her hands trembling as she peels back the paper.
Inside is a photograph, carefully preserved in a simple black frame. Lark’s breath catches as she recognizes the image: the frost bloom, glowing ethereally under the moonlight. Noir’s craftsmanship with the camera is apparently as precise as it was with glass, capturing every intricate detail of the flower.
Beneath the photo lies a folded piece of paper. Lark hesitates before opening it, her heart pounding.
The note is brief, written in Emery’s familiar, angular handwriting:
“Some things are too perfect to destroy.”
Lark sinks into the nearest chair, tears blurring her vision as she stares at the photograph. The words cut deeply—not because they offer closure, but because they reopen every wound Lark thought had begun to heal.
What does Noir mean? That the frost bloom deserved to endure, but their relationship didn’t? That the flower was more valuable than what they shared? Or is this Noir’s way of apologizing, their own fractured attempt to say they cared?
Lark doesn’t know, and she suspects she never will.
She places the photograph on the windowsill, where the soft light from the gray sky makes the image glow faintly, just as the frost bloom had that night.
The last thing she heard that night was the sound of glass shattering.