Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

“Is it life,” he counters, “if there is never death to balance it? Or is its brevity what makes it beautiful?”

“Control is knowing yourself well enough to know your limits.”

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil, plant them shallow but water them deep, and in my place will grow a feral rose, soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.”

“Some people keep their heart tucked so deep, they hardly know it’s there. But you,” she went on, turning back toward Charlotte, “you have always worn it like a second skin.” She ran a hand down her daughter’s arm. “Open to the world. You feel it all. The love and pain. The joy and hope and sorrow.” She pulled Charlotte close, carrying the scent of the garden. Of home. “It will make your life harder,” she said into her daughter’s hair. “But it will also make it beautiful.”

“Because you are the kind of bloom that thrives in any soil.