Rocket never needed to explain herself. She just moved, and the world shifted to make room for whatever she was about to do next. I followed her like I always did, curiosity buzzing under my skin, camera strapped to my shoulder like a second set of eyes. She was chasing something—something sweet, something impossible. Edible flowers, she called them. But I knew better. It was never just about the flowers.

She led me to a bluesman first, a guy with hands that played before they even touched the strings. South River Slim, they called him. His voice dragged through the air like it had somewhere else to be, and for a second, I thought maybe I had somewhere else to be too. But Rocket had already moved on, pulling me deeper into whatever story she was writing.

Then came the women—wrapped in silks, stepping between the trees like they belonged there more than the roots did. They didn’t speak, not at first. They just watched, measuring me with eyes that saw past skin, past bone. I wanted to ask where we were going, but the words never left my mouth. I already knew I wouldn’t get an answer.

Rocket kept walking, her coat fraying at the edges, the scent of chocolate trailing behind her like a promise. I followed. I always did.