in the making
verdandi, ghost in the making
Bells chimed as the shop door slid open. Verdandi closed her eyes against the warm breeze that entered with the customer, a little breath of summer she hadn’t realized she was missing, and let out a slow sigh. She watched as the customer, a young Siren with three gold-tinted wings, gazed at the wide selection of flowers. The Siren was new to the city, judging by her weathered toga and the harp glimmering from the top of her satchel.
She turned to face Verdandi. Her wide ocean eyes were a mixture of naiveté and omniscience, as Siren eyes usually were, but still held a sense of uncertainty. Verdandi gave her a soft smile, and the girl seemed to relax a bit.
“I’m…” she cleared her throat, blushing. (Verdandi deduced this was because of her heavy accent by the way she bit her lip swiftly, eyes shifting slightly to the left. She tucked that information away for later.) “I’m looking for statices. Do you supply them here?”
“We do.”
Verdandi drifted to the shelves, swift eyes cataloguing each vase and pot. She let out a soft hum as she found it, pressing her thumb gently to the panel beneath it. The purple flowers slid onto a small cart and rolled to the counter, shifting the bundle of statices before the Siren.
“Statices,” Verdandi announced as this occurred, drifting back to the register. “Also known as the ‘sea lavender’, they are known to represent remembrance.” Her eye flicked up to meet the Siren, a smile on her shadowy lips.
The Siren stared. “I’m aware. I’ve a lot of remembering to do, these days. What are you?”
Verdandi jumped a bit, startled by the intrusive question. In this society, it was considered not only impolite but outlandish to ask someone of their species. Some would get extremely emotional over their state of being- some just wanted to forget. In any case, it was information usually shared far into trustworthy relationships, not when meeting someone for the first time in a flower shop.
However, the Siren was obviously not from here. she may have had different customs, different ideas of what was appropriate. Verdandi sighed.
“Ghost,” she said, looking through the window, “Spirit, whatever you’d like to call it. Dead.”
She turned back to the Siren, who grinned.
“I have never met a ghost before. You are transparent.”
“Yes.”
“When did you die?”
Verdandi blew a thin puff of air between her lips, as if smoking an invisible cigarette. “I died 1943.”
“You were murdered.” It wasn’t a question- Verdandi laughed, cold and quick.
“Yes. Unfortunately, they never caught the killer. I’m a physical manifestation of a cold homicide case. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
She grinned, her fingers ghosting over the touchpad of the register. When the Siren pushed crumpled bills and coins towards her, she shook her head, pointing to the small cup on the register.
“Put it in there. I can’t hold things, they slip right through.”
The Siren, with pursed lips, paid and took her purchases. She paused on her way to the door, turning back.
“What is your name, flower ghost?”
“Verdandi.”
“Ah,” the Siren hummed, eyes closing contentedly. “Norse. In the making. How perfect.” Her lids opened lazily as she walked swiftly over, scrawling something in messy print on a small business card. “Verdandi, where I am from, I happen to specialize in your type of situation.”
“Situation?”
“Dead. A kind of…detective, if you will. I specialize in homicides. You are quite interesting; I’d like to investigate your death. Call me, if you’d like me to.”
The Siren turned to leave, her golden hair flying behind her, as Verdandi said, “What’s your name?”
“Anthea. Goodbye, Verdandi, ghost in the making,” she called, letting the door shutter behind her wings with a loud bang.
Verdandi, the ghost in the making, stared. For over a hundred years, she had stayed in this building, drifting from her shop to her apartment; as she was no longer alive, she was forever held in a purgatory of inert existence. For over a hundred years, leaving the place where she had died had no appeal.
For the first time in over a hundred years, she wondered what it would be like to go through that door herself.
She turned to face Verdandi. Her wide ocean eyes were a mixture of naiveté and omniscience, as Siren eyes usually were, but still held a sense of uncertainty. Verdandi gave her a soft smile, and the girl seemed to relax a bit.
“I’m…” she cleared her throat, blushing. (Verdandi deduced this was because of her heavy accent by the way she bit her lip swiftly, eyes shifting slightly to the left. She tucked that information away for later.) “I’m looking for statices. Do you supply them here?”
“We do.”
Verdandi drifted to the shelves, swift eyes cataloguing each vase and pot. She let out a soft hum as she found it, pressing her thumb gently to the panel beneath it. The purple flowers slid onto a small cart and rolled to the counter, shifting the bundle of statices before the Siren.
“Statices,” Verdandi announced as this occurred, drifting back to the register. “Also known as the ‘sea lavender’, they are known to represent remembrance.” Her eye flicked up to meet the Siren, a smile on her shadowy lips.
The Siren stared. “I’m aware. I’ve a lot of remembering to do, these days. What are you?”
Verdandi jumped a bit, startled by the intrusive question. In this society, it was considered not only impolite but outlandish to ask someone of their species. Some would get extremely emotional over their state of being- some just wanted to forget. In any case, it was information usually shared far into trustworthy relationships, not when meeting someone for the first time in a flower shop.
However, the Siren was obviously not from here. she may have had different customs, different ideas of what was appropriate. Verdandi sighed.
“Ghost,” she said, looking through the window, “Spirit, whatever you’d like to call it. Dead.”
She turned back to the Siren, who grinned.
“I have never met a ghost before. You are transparent.”
“Yes.”
“When did you die?”
Verdandi blew a thin puff of air between her lips, as if smoking an invisible cigarette. “I died 1943.”
“You were murdered.” It wasn’t a question- Verdandi laughed, cold and quick.
“Yes. Unfortunately, they never caught the killer. I’m a physical manifestation of a cold homicide case. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
She grinned, her fingers ghosting over the touchpad of the register. When the Siren pushed crumpled bills and coins towards her, she shook her head, pointing to the small cup on the register.
“Put it in there. I can’t hold things, they slip right through.”
The Siren, with pursed lips, paid and took her purchases. She paused on her way to the door, turning back.
“What is your name, flower ghost?”
“Verdandi.”
“Ah,” the Siren hummed, eyes closing contentedly. “Norse. In the making. How perfect.” Her lids opened lazily as she walked swiftly over, scrawling something in messy print on a small business card. “Verdandi, where I am from, I happen to specialize in your type of situation.”
“Situation?”
“Dead. A kind of…detective, if you will. I specialize in homicides. You are quite interesting; I’d like to investigate your death. Call me, if you’d like me to.”
The Siren turned to leave, her golden hair flying behind her, as Verdandi said, “What’s your name?”
“Anthea. Goodbye, Verdandi, ghost in the making,” she called, letting the door shutter behind her wings with a loud bang.
Verdandi, the ghost in the making, stared. For over a hundred years, she had stayed in this building, drifting from her shop to her apartment; as she was no longer alive, she was forever held in a purgatory of inert existence. For over a hundred years, leaving the place where she had died had no appeal.
For the first time in over a hundred years, she wondered what it would be like to go through that door herself.