He only came out of his trance when a pair of hands suddenly grabbed him, pulling him backwards. He realised he had been walking towards waves of fire. He looked around, but couldn’t see who had grabbed him in the chaos all around.
Stumbling, he rushed back to the refuge of the park, but that too was full of smoke from the blast. With tear filled eyes, he began to touch each flower, as if he was trying to comfort them, consoling them before they wilted in the toxic air. Near the old Banyan tree, he saw something moving in the grass. It was one of the blue, shiny butterflies, but it was dying in the thick smoke, one wing hanging loose.
Tenderly, he picked it up, and held it on his palm, caressing it with his fingers, but he felt no excitement at having achieved his goal to hold and touch the wings of a butterfly. Slowly the wings stopped moving, and he dug a small hole under the Banyan tree with his fingers. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, he placed its small broken body inside, and covered it, stroking the earth into a small mound.
With a heavy heart he headed back to the main gate of the park, staring at his fingers where the earth and butterfly’s wings had left the mixed colours of death and grief.