Stories > Mirabella's Stories > Steward's Trumpets
jagged as an eggshell, the broken dome rose before him. Below in the
City, chisel rang on stone, but here no mason labored. Faramir knew not
why he had returned here. This place held no secrets, only things that
were better left hidden. He knew that his father was gone, beyond any
hope of healing.
Yet his heart lifted when he saw the green vines, tender in their
newness, that twined across the ruins. Fine tendrils grasped the
stones and, among the heart-shaped leaves, white flowers turned toward
Morning glory, folk called them, and also steward’s trumpets.