你被海浪拍打的声音惊醒。海鸥在头顶上啸叫，掠过海滩寻找它们的早餐。你轻轻地从床上爬起来，望向东窗外，可以看到第一缕阳光透过窗子洒在你的身上，太阳从你的身后的山丘上升起。

你的早晨一如往常：换好衣服，刷牙，然后开始泡茶，边享受早晨的阳光边照看你的花园。花草身披的晨霜闪烁着，像无数细小的宝石。你倒不担心，它们足够坚强，不需要保护。

(资料图片仅供参考)

你的注意力被房子墙边的马蹄莲苗圃吸引。寒冬，花朵仍在你眼前次第绽放。贴近了看，花瓣缓慢而谨慎地向外张开，好像你本不该目睹这些秘密。你转身看向整个花园，一片欣欣向荣。柿子树的枝干昨天还光秃秃的，今天便开始生出小小的绿芽，美丽的、光亮的叶子也自此孕成。面向大海的冰草平原上点缀着粉色和紫色的雏菊似的花朵。海滨上满是美丽的海岸玫瑰。在你的脚下，新的野花腼腆地冲破冰冷的土壤，面向清晨的阳光。即使是那被忽略的玫瑰丛，也不在意艰难的处境，开满鲜艳的花儿，傲立冰霜。

你的感觉迅速从困惑转为惊奇，再到恍悟。在图书馆the Library里待了这么久，你知道这意味着什么。你的思绪短暂地转向是否要逃脱这个问题。逃离的路途Ways繁多，近在咫尺，只消几步就能轻快地将这场所置于脑后。

……这可不好，不是么。人有一死，祂He也只光顾一次。

你搁下园艺工具，回到温暖而安全的家中。书房桌子上放着一本未完成的想法笔记，抽屉里还有支祖父留给你的钢笔。有些想法注定半途而废，但这次不同，肯定值得一试。你走向露台，俯瞰大海。

你坐下来写作时，太阳已经完全升起。你身处的半岛之后的城镇热闹起来，游客、当地人、漂泊者和那些无处可去的人开始了新的一天。他们似乎注意到了那些花朵。虽然他们知道等着他们的是什么，但或许想及自己的最后一天如此熟悉能给予他们一些安慰。

你那对什么都好奇的猫咪想了解你的一日活动。她跳上你的膝盖，看起来很满足。她温暖的躯体在冬季的空气里是种慰藉，你听到她柔和的喉音，笑了笑，仿佛她也知道将要发生什么。

有些思绪相融，有些则不然。时间的流逝教太阳越发接近它海平面下的墓。邻居们陆续从镇上回家，你决定拿出前一天从渔民那里买的螃蟹，准备点特别的菜肴。烹饪对你来说总是种放松。此刻，拿出一瓶一直为特殊场合贮藏的美酒，再合适不过了。

宴席开始。那朦胧的夜就像落日勾出的鸽子轮廓般模糊。你知道鸽子为何出现，看来狱卒们决定做点好事，想及此让你的心温暖起来。在露台柔和温暖的灯光下，你和邻居们笑谈着享用美食和美酒，各自回顾自己的生活，寻找其中的点滴幸福。你的思绪飘向世界另一端的爱人。然而，你并不悲伤，因为你相信伊也在想着你。

最终，夜幕降临，餐桌上散落着蟹壳，美酒已然干涸。你的眼皮沉重地搭上，客人散尽了的夜更加寂静。渐渐地，你只能听到浪花拍打礁石的声音，黑夜中的水声是你仅剩的陪伴。

你躺在床上，未完成的手稿搁在枕头下，猫咪蜷缩在你身旁。你知道你将不会醒来，洪水会在这里夺走你的生命，但你并不为此不安。说不定后世来客再找不到你的残骸，但要是你够走运，他们会见着一朵孤独的马蹄莲，在被弃身后的时代的遗迹和浮木之上轻轻摇晃。你的骸骨、言辞和爱都安眠彼处。

还有别的什么比它们更重要么？

You are awoken by the sound of waves crashing against the rocks. Seagulls squawking above add to the cacophony, combing the shore for their morning meal. As you gingerly roll yourself out of bed, you can see the first rays of sunshine peeking through your eastern window, with the sun rising above the hills at your back.

Your morning routine proceeds as normal, as you get dressed, brush your teeth, and begin steeping a cup of tea to enjoy while you tend to your garden. A layer of frost covers the plants outside, glittering like millions of tiny gems in the morning sun. You don't worry, though. Your plants are hardy enough to not warrant protection.

The first thing that catches your eye is the bed of calla lilies alongside the wall of your house. Despite the fact that it is the dead of winter, the flowers begin to each unfurl in turn before your eyes. As you step closer, the petals slowly and gingerly peeking out into the world, you hold your breath, as if you are witnessing something you should not. Only then do you turn to the rest of your garden, and see it in full bloom. The persimmon tree, bare sticks only the morning before, had begun to sprout little green buds, some of which had already opened into beautiful waxy leaves. The iceplant plains facing the sea were dotted with pink and purple daisy-like blooms. Beach roses with their stunning flowers littered the shoreline. Beneath your feet, new wildflowers hesitantly pushed their way past cold soil to see the light of the morning. Even the neglected patch of rosebushes, despite their circumstance, had blossomed into full roses, standing in defiance of the frost.

Your feelings quickly turn from confusion, to wonder, and then to a knowing realization. You've spent long enough in the Library to know what this means. Your mind briefly contemplates the promise of escape. You know half a dozen Ways within walking distance! You could quickly and easily leave this place behind!

….but that wouldn't be fair, would it. Death comes for us all, and He only knocks once.

You set down your gardening tools and return to the warmth and safety of your home. On the desk in your study lies a notebook of half-finished ideas; in the drawers remains the fountain pen your grandfather left for you. Perhaps some ideas are destined to remain half-finished, but it must be worth the attempt. You leave for your patio, overlooking the sea.

The sun has fully risen, as you sit and write. The town behind your little peninsula is in full swing now, with tourists and locals and drifters and those who no longer have a place to go at all living another day. They seem to notice the flowers. Though they know what awaits them, perhaps the thought of their last day being something familiar is comforting.

Your cat, ever the curious creature, decides to investigate your activities. She hops into your lap, seemingly content with her state of being. She's very warm, a relief against the winter air. You hear her gently purring, and smile to yourself. It seems almost as if she knows what is coming, too.

Some ideas coalesce, some do not. The minutes stretch into hours, and the sun sinks ever closer to its grave beneath the waters of the ocean. As your neighbors begin to come home from the town, you decide to take the crabs you had bought from the fishermen the day before and put together something special. Cooking was always relaxing for you. There's no better time than now to take down that nice bottle of wine you've been saving for a special occasion.

And so it was a feast. It was one of those nights that are a little blurry around the edges, just like the outlines of the doves backed by the setting sun. You know why the doves are there, and the idea of the Jailors deciding to do something good for a change warms your heart. Beneath the soft, warm lights of the terrace you and your neighbors laugh and joke and eat and drink, each reflecting on their life and finding what satisfaction there is to be gleaned from such things. Your thoughts are of your lover, halfway across the world. Yet you are not melancholy, for you are certain they are thinking of you too.

Eventually, the night has darkened, the table has become scattered with the remnants of crab shells, and the wine has run dry. Sleep weighs heavily on your eyelids, and as each of your guests gets up to leave, the night becomes ever more still. In time, all you can hear is the crashing of waves against stone, the dark water below your only companion.

You find yourself in your bed, your half-finished notebook under your pillow and your cat curled up beside you. You know you will not awake, and the Flood will claim you here, but that's alright with you. Chances are, when the next ones come, they will find nothing of you. If you're lucky, they'll find a singular calla lily, bobbing atop the flotsam and wreckage of a bygone era. You'll be under there, with your bones and your words and your love.

And isn't that what matters?