The next morning, when I went out to water the flowers again, I found myself avoiding that corner of the yard entirely. The Devil’s Fingers was still there, its red limbs curling slightly in the sun, buzzing with curious flies.
In its own way, it was both revolting and remarkable—a reminder that nature doesn’t need to look beautiful to be extraordinary. It can be grotesque, unsettling, even horrifying—and still serve a purpose.
So I decided to leave it alone.
That patch of earth now belongs to it. I water the flowers from a distance, careful not to disturb what I’ve come to think of as “the gift from the devil.”
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