Picked

 

That leaf was the most beautiful thing she had seen in years. On turning the yellow pages of an old, dusty book she had long-forgotten, there it lay, amongst kind. Paper is made of wood after all, she thought. It was in a safe place. Arid, dry, drained of all that was liquid, it spoke to her. Just to her. It had a colour that matched its transparency. She saw its veins intertwined, yet so clear; each leading somewhere, following a pattern. She put out her hand to find similarity in the lines they said narrate her destiny.

It was considered to be a sacred fig; the tree was supposedly wisdom-giving. Peepal, yes, she recalled. She peered at the leaf closely. She did not see that in it. She felt its dryness with the tip of her finger. Somewhat like dry skin, she thought. She admired its beauty turning it up and down when she realised how its lifelessness was what gave it that charm. Beauty comes at a price after all, she thought as she placed the dry leaf back amidst the pages of her old, dusty book, where it belonged.

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