She doesn’t leave breadcrumbs, no.
Her trails are littered in fragmented blossoms, her footsteps bleed petals of crimson and gold.
There’s an intricate scent that lingers in her wake. It’s something sweet. It’s something not.
They follow her everywhere, crawling along the petal-coated ground and grasping at crimson and gold. It’s pitiful. It’s pathetic. It’s wholly and utterly expected.
She hears them, she feels them. She knows they’re dedicating their entire lives to sweeping the floor in her shadow, gathering up her delicate debris like they’re rubies and diamonds and pearls.
It’s a shame that they’re not.
She feels nothing.
She never turns around.