It's a terrible thing to be forgotten.
Her father’s gift was wisdom wrapped in used lessons. Never be forgotten. Never be a ghost.
Sea Swirl watches the flowers drift upstream from the river mouth. Light trembles over lilies, carnations—just enough magic to shepherd them against the current.
Because terrible things happen at sea. Unseen and unheard, unless salt-stained possessions begin to creep ashore.
She studies her cottage—her museum—cowering on the dusky beach. Pulled back from Ponyville by tides better left undisturbed.
It's a small town, she knows this. Small, and yet so easy to become lost in. Talents and achievements spirited away.
But no, she will not be a ghost.
Like every month, the garden's pilgrimage should be strange enough to nurture a moment’s attention for those lost at sea.
And perhaps for the pony tending it.
She shivers under the half-light's scrutiny.
It's a terrible thing to be forgotten.