Short Story: Function Reserved for A Beating Heart

The flower twirled between his fingers. He had stopped working and watched as the organic fibers glistened in the sun. There was a smell; he could quite differentiate it. Flowers were good at scents. You could say it was their survival mechanism—his was doing what was asked of him efficiently and precisely. For the past ten years, it had been handpicking flowers and preparing them to be sold onwards.

When he wasn’t working, he read everything he could find about flowers. The evolution to attr...