Intention Man (title in progress)

Slow + Steady

Rosy petals floated in the almost nonexistent breeze. Terraces linked hands above, allowing only sharp shafts of sunlight to peek through. The cobblestone below made Lev's feet feel heavy as he tried his best not to wander through down the path. Around this time of the year, the forest was always beginning to lose some of its petals. The trees never fully let go of their cover, but often grew too full to keep all of it and had to release it into Trealles as a flurry of silky, perfumed flower rain.

A petal landed on his throat—as he'd been looking up to let the sun soak into his skin—and it stung. The petals always did that, but today the pain spread as a result of a ball to the neck.

Lev felt for the petal and removed it, hanging on and gently rubbing it between his fingers, letting the pain spread up his hand. It wasn't too bad if one was used to it, but one wouldn't wish to walk into an entire tree—at the risk of debilitating injuries. But the petals, a few at a time, were glorious—one of the softest items Lev had ever come across. His liking of the trees was so strong that he had cut off some branches and planted them in a vase in his room. The bloom was coming along nicely, but the petals were not the same as they had been. Uprooting and replanting caused a lack of luster and energy emanating from the flowers. His latest project was based around finding a cure for his plants. Yet, thus far, his only conclusion was that the flowers were simply too magnificent and would only thrive in their original habitat.

He knew he wouldn't survive if he was uprooted and planted somewhere else, so he could hardly blame the flowers. But it would save him a lot of trouble if he grow a forest in his attic and not have to face the daily woes of social interaction.

Here the path below the terraces split and Lev veered to the right, keeping a hand on the stony wall and pushing through petals. Above him were residence apartments. Down here were the old pathways—old apartments—before the improvements began taking place. The old living sect was relatively closed down save for the few wealthy who had an apartment at the bottom and had built up as the improvements came about. Lev's grandparents were part of that wealthier, or more historical, class of people.

The closing down was considered an important part of upward mobility, but if the population kept growing the Housing Center would need to reopen the old apartments. There was a limit as to how high housing could be built. Anything higher than the Mod Center was illegal. Unless...they decided to expand West. The possibility of expansion in that direction was often discussed by Lev's grandparents, but it wasn't a widely adored topic of conversation. It was avoided—anything about the West generally was.

Two doors on the right, another turn down another alley, and an ancient blue door stood before him, looming high—almost to the point of the terraces above. Legend had it that the Housing Committee wished to uproot the door and place it in the Mod Center but Lucca Trealles held his ground—holding the door, quite literally—and would not let them take it. That door had been in the family for centuries or something of that sort. Lev wasn't really sure on the details—they changed every time Lucca told the story.

 Lev raised his fist to knock, stepped back, clasped his hands before him, and stared down the alley as if a hole would open up and swallow him entirely.

Muffled sounds emanated from behind the door. "It's Lev!"

"What is he doing here?"

"Something must have happened!"

The door swung open to reveal the weathered, jovial faces and forms of Lucca and Trista Langford.

They stepped to the side and the door opened further. "Come in, Lev!"