Flower petals, velvet maroon, brushed my cheek as I leaned forward in the greenhouse. Something unfamiliar: a wrenching magnetism emanating from the flowers, vigorously sucking in heat. But the heat here was supplied by boilers, so it must be possible to fool a tropical plant, when what it is really seeking is the sun.
I remembered that this was a past life regression. So the public gardens still stand, but this greenhouse is long gone, a glass case from another time and its source of warmth allied more closely with steam combustion than with modern radiators. This other me who could feel flowers drawing in heat was familiar like the coal fire in my childhood home, yet at the same time she was a stranger with very unusual senses. I moved on.