She gravitated towards the museum. Not because of the paintings with their rich textures or the sculptures with their smooth, cold lines.
Because of the moths.
She walked past the glass cabinets, gazing at their hypnotic, symmetrical beauty. The rosy maple moth made her think of raspberry ripple ice cream. The luna moth made her think of the pistachio bridesmaid dress she wore when she was five.
But her favourite was the atlas moth, its size belying its too short life span. Today, she touched her fingers to the glass and quickly walked away as its wings began to beat.
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