Apologies for the extended absence. Work on my office has been more taxing than I expected, but I am nearly done!

Today’s post is actually inspired by a new feature in my office. Unexpected, but I will call it a product of successful redecoration!

-Neon

I still remember my Fifth-day morning ritual.

In hot or cold weather, I needed my tea. The public house was open early on Fifth-day and I was almost always the first one there. I took my cup on the balcony overlooking the Green Wall. Every Fifth-day, the monks would rise before dawn and begin their work.

The wall was the last remnant of the original city. It had been standing for over six thousand years and stretched north to south across the west end of the town square. Hundreds of metal loops had been anchored into the wall and each loop held a tiny, hollow globe of blown glass. Inside each of these was a plant little bigger than a man’s thumb.

These plants had been given to our city as a gift of peace at the signing of the Treaty of Harralo River. There were originally five such plants, not given lightly as they are the symbol of the House of Sighs. Former assassins that sued for peace when all hope was lost. Men and women who laid down their arms in time of war and guided enemies to a place of understanding. As only this section of wall remained, it was decided that it would be used to display the plants. It seemed only fitting that the monks of the Order of Leaves be entrusted with their care. What started with those five plants eventually grew into the many hundreds that adorned the Green Wall.

Most people paid little attention to it these days. It became an easily overlooked reminder of something that happened millenia ago, but the monks continued to care for them when no one else could be bothered. Just before dawn on Fifth-day, they awoke. This was the only day they would forego their morning prayers. They would spend the entire day carefully tending to each plant individually. Every glass sphere was etched with the name of a member of their order that had passed into history. When one of the plants put forth its pups, it was cause for celebration among the monks.

I would spend the entirety of those days on that balcony. Sipping tea and reading. It was the closest I dared come to any form of spirituality. While the business of the city bustled on, I watched the monks and secretly shared in their joy every time they found a new pup. Sometimes it seemed as if we were the only ones that cared to remember what the Green Wall meant. Thousands passed by it each day, but few seemed to ever acknowledge its presence. No plaque was hung. No words recorded in history books. As if no one wanted to remember.