They said the flowers were beautiful. Bright violet petals, soft as ash, blooming overnight in cracks of pavement, between floorboards, inside coffins.

We should’ve known something was wrong when the bees stopped coming.

At first, people picked them, posted pictures… #NewBloom. Then came the nosebleeds. The insomnia. The whispers.

Dr. Voss warned the council. “These aren’t flora. They’re signals… they’re flares.”

No one listened.

By week three, the blooms carpeted entire cities. Cars rusted under them. Glass warped. People stopped dreaming.

Then we saw the ships. Not descending, but rising, from beneath the earth. Ancient, veined in the same violet glow. As if the flowers had been incubating them.

That night, the first wave hit: silence fell across every device. No sound. No electricity. Just the buzzing of petals.

I watched my brother walk into a field of them, eyes blank, smiling. He never came back.

Now we burn what we can. But they always return, stronger, brighter.

The last broadcast ended with one sentence: “Don’t breathe the pollen.”

I hold my breath as I write this. But I can feel it crawling up my throat.

Once the flowers bloom, we’re all doomed.