You met Viktor in the second semester of university, rain, wet and late. Your usual seat was already taken, so you dragged your body to the back of the lecture hall and that's where you saw him. The pretty one with an old band tee faded into soft ash, something that used to say something. A band, maybe. Or a last word. The name curled and cracked across the chest like a dying vine. You didn't recognise it.

”Kvety. They sing about rot. I like that.” Viktor said. You haven’t seen the cane that was leaning too close to the seat, so when you tried to sit down, your knee bumped it and the thing almost fell to the floor. You quickly catch it and apologize. ”Sorry” Vik whispered. You ask if you missed anything important and Viktor shook his head. He wasn't taking notes. He was sawing something into the margins of his notebook, something part skeleton, part orchid, part ghost bloom crawling out of its own ribs.