The God stopped by the wayside. Bending, he plucked the little weed. It had grown in the sun, taking root in a very short while. Yet, it came out of the ground and into his hand rather easily. Life was far too fragile at times.

He twirled the plant in his hand, his eyes intent. The tall woman next to him merely watched, saying nothing but waiting for him to finish.

“Their memories reached those who mattered,” he said, as the plant withered away in his hands.

“It has seen plenty,” the woman agreed, taking the plant from him and putting it back into the ground. It looked as though it had never left. They looked out towards the sunset, across the river.

In their mind, they could see what had happened quite a long time ago, but time passes much faster for a plant that’s so short-lived. Two friends had hid under the ledge from the sun, until they came to a stop in front of the plant. There, they had reassured each other, and took the last step to ending their lives. They had disappeared in a blaze of green fire.

“And still,” the man said, “You insist this place is not a mistake.”

“There is life here. Much to appreciate, and much to be appreciated. They experience what they need to here, even if it is different.”

“One world, many different realities.”

“No,” she corrected him gently, “One world, different possibilities. It’s the only one like that.”

“Possibilities, realities, what’s the difference?”

“Realities are fixed. Possibilities are fluid. Each time a choice is made, possibilities disappear. Realities will not.”

“And you left them here.”

“It is a good place as any. They will only grow stronger, never weaker.”

“So you say.”