Cossette's fingers danced through the air, carefully selecting a vibrant spray of wildflowers from the verdant meadow that sprawled before them. Beside her, Whitlea was stooping to pluck a particularly robust daisy, her discerning eyes appraising its petals.
The annual Latorre tradition of crafting a flower wreath for the advent of spring was an activity that straddled the fine line between art and ritual. Every flower, every blade of grass, was a testament to the places she'd roamed a...
