Seedling

The seedling was dead.

Pyrene sighed, resting her chin on her hooves. The little plant lay in front of her snout, wilting just over the edge of its pot. It was nothing more but a couple of leaves, really.

And now it would never be more than that. It would never soak up the sun's energy or feel the moisture in its roots again. It wouldn't blossom the pretty, tasty flowers she'd been looking forward to.

Pyrene scrunched her nose up, tucking her face under a hoof. She'd tried her best, really. She thought she'd followed the instructions rather well - it was watered, but not too much; kept by the window, but not in harsh sunlight. She'd even talked to it, as if it might have been lonely. If it was lonely, it might've been too nervous to break through the soil, or grow to its full potential. When it did finally break to the surface, it felt like an accomplishment. But she guessed it didn't really matter now.

It didn't feel fair, but she must have done something wrong. Maybe her schedule wasn't consistent enough to raise the little plant. Maybe she just wasn't good enough for that kind of responsibility.

She laid there for at least an hour, stewing in her thoughts and regrets, unable to look at the withered leaves of her plant. And for at least a month, she vowed she would never try taking care of a plant again, not if she could fail that miserably a second time.

But an empty pot on her windowsill and a very tempting couple of seeds she'd discovered in a puddle outside were hard to ignore.

And so she planted the mystery seeds, unsure if they would even begin to grow after being waterlogged for who knows how long. If they did grow, though, she vowed to make a promise.

This little plant would survive. She wouldn't fail again.