Where We Almost Meet

In a small rural town, the flowers outgrew the people. No one remembers when it started, only that the petals kept rising, swallowing houses, roads, whole villages, families. Everyone keeps walking anyway through corridors of crimson, hoping the landscape will tell them what it wants. You can see traces of other people — footsteps, a coat disappearing behind a leaf — but no one knows if their paths ever truly overlap. Will the chosen ones find each other before the red loneliness swallows them whole?