Across the greenery, the dusk gathers, grows, and spills slow across the false sky, a spreading stain of purple velvet bordered in deep, dark indigo. At once his eye is drawn behind them, to the shadows deepening beneath the trees. Is there something-?

No. They're alone.

"Shame," he echoes without knowing he's done so, thoughtful. Flynn rubs the soil dry on his fingers, contemplative, and glances back to Clu. The flowers look so small in his grip, organic and fragile against unrelieved synth-black. You never used to wear gloves. "All the more reason to appreciate them while they're still blooming."

"Mono no aware, man," he remembers aloud. "Beauty in impermanence."