The roses never looked redder than they did now. Even though I have killed more plant life than pollution, these roses seemed to have blossomed well. I was justifiably proud of them. It pained me to leave them behind.
Myra was directing the movers in her perfunctory way, gesticulating wildly. We weren’t allowed to take much with us, but I knew she would never leave behind the few experiments she was working on, and thankfully my own possessions were so meager that I only rated one medium-sized box filled some shielded hard drives of data and a few books Mom left me when she had died.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Myra broke into my reverie. “I’m trying to get us off this dirtball before the primary lights us up like burnt toast. Help me out, will you?”
I took the shears out of my pack and snipped off one of the roses close to the flower. This small reminder of a dying world would reside in the pages of one of my books.
Clutching the flower gently, I turned and followed Myra to the transport.