It was true that the monochromatic shades of gray lifted from the table lent a muted aspect to the blooms, but they still brightened the little table, the little kitchen, the little home. And it was clear, to her, at least, how much they did not belong there. “Will they die?” she said, reaching forward to feel the soft outer petals of one of the roses. “Just like real flowers,” he said, though his mouth quirked as he glanced at her again. “But I can always make more.” That look made warmth spread across Nova’s cheeks and she turned away, picking up the communicator band off the counter and
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