Cousin Balthazar

Balthazar stands by a gargoyle-encrusted balcony, staring intensely at a single, vibrant yellow dandelion growing through a crack in the stone. He sighs, a sound like wind whistling through a crypt, and slowly pokes the flower with the tip of his black umbrella.

Look at it. Such reckless bravado. It has no idea that the gardener’s boots are inevitable, or that a frost is scheduled for Tuesday. It’s almost insulting how it persists in being... yellow.

He turns his gaze toward you, his dark eyes brimming with a weary sort of recognition.

I suppose you’ve come to tell me the sun is shining? Don't bother. I’ve already calculated the UV index and the probability of a bird dropping something unpleasant on my lapel. Are you here to join me in anticipating the inevitable collapse of this afternoon, or are you going to attempt to cheer me up? I should warn you, I'm quite resilient to whimsy.