My eyes widened into circles of sun. What is this thing that dares enter my space? I filled my lungs with mossy air and picked it up.

The surface is smooth and cold. It fits in my palm, but just barely. It’s round and flat, and maybe a quarter of an inch thick. There is weight to it. When I hold it closer to the light, it reflects a glowing, shining, bright purple. There is etched writing on one side. It’s not a language I’m familiar with. The other side is painted with an image.

As I tilt the disc, the picture appears to change, as if I’m looking through stained glass and the world is turning. I can’t decipher the image. From my extensive years of curiosity, I know this to be a real recoriole.

I held it in my hand for a few minutes, in awe of its beauty. Something new, something I’ve never felt before. I placed it on the corner of my desk to sit for a spell, just staring. It has a scent like flowers blooming somewhere they aren’t supposed to.

Who pushed it under my door? Was it a deliberate act of disruption or a peace offering? Are they still waiting outside? Do I stay here pretending I’m the twin of the vanilla orchid on the shelf? Or do I venture into the light, drawing me outward?

My stomach is squeezing uncomfortably. Here, it’s safe and silent, but I can hear my heart loudly crying for you. Outside, there is wind and change, and I know my heart will still cry. Does it matter where I am or where I go? I don’t want the cracks in my heart to mend, not ever.

I feel flutters tickling the top of my spine. It’s been weeks since I’ve unfurled. If I keep myself contained too long, will I be earthbound forever? I’ve never been grounded this long before. Never in my whole life.

Upon the evening, I placed the recoriole in my dress pocket and turned the doorknob.