Leaving my seclusion is difficult.
She lives across the empty courtyard between our buildings, the courtyard where she grows flowers. I’ve seen her come and go dozens of times, tending her flower pots. But we didn’t meet until last month.
As a child, she was called Meliboea, but now she goes by Chloris. Which means “the pale one”—she became permanently pale because she was so frightened by her sibling’s deaths.
Tonight I meet her parents. I’ve learned it’s an unspoken requirement to meet the parents in Greek families.
I’m feeling faint myself. I hope I don’t turn too pale.
In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.