The air was still, the aluminium table, cold, and the professor watched transfixed as the butterfly fluttered before his nose. Its fragile wings whispered against his unshaven cheek as he gently unscrewed the Petri dish lid and squeezed a silver drop from his pipette, watching it spread like tiny veins across the honeyed glaze.
Enticed by the sweet aroma the butterfly floated to the dish to imbibe and as it did, crystals swept across the creature’s entire body in frosted feathers of rime.
The professor stared in wonder at the intricate lattice of silver coating the butterfly’s wings in a work of exquisite art, his own hand imitating Jack Frost, and he leaned in close. Warmth from his breath gilded the frozen creature and filigree lace glistened, and regret shaded his features as one delicate touch shattered the butterfly into a million sparkles, like a burst bubble.
What’s your take on innocence?
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