Where the Flowers Remember

I arrived in a dream of dark teal and chrome, the engine of the old 280 SE finally silent. It rested on the asphalt edge of memory, its red taillight a single, waking eye. Before me, a field of flowers bloomed with impossible color, a vibrant carpet leading towards the grassy hill where the black church stood sentinel against an overcast sky. Its steeple, crowned with a simple cross, pierced the grey expanse, its white-framed windows like vacant eyes staring into my own. The world was quiet here, a forgotten Sunday where the only shadow was the one my long journey had cast upon the stone curb.