Sritha’s pulse quickened. The crowd sang along, but in the pause between verses she heard a soft murmur. An elderly man in the back lifted his hand; his voice shook as he sang a line Sritha had only ever heard in her grandmother's kitchen. It was the exact phrase her grandmother had emphasized, the same slight lilt she'd used.

The petals fell. Someone in the crowd sniffed the small fragrance and smiled. A child learned the song and added a verse about rain. A young couple danced, quietly, with the same modest joy that had kept the hymn breathing.