Ana
It's so quiet. The kind of quiet that makes everything else louder—my footsteps crunching against scattered pebbles, the wind sighing through leaves like whispered secrets, even my own thoughts echoing in the hollow spaces of my skull like stones dropped down a well.
The rose garden is finally full of life now. Waking up from the last threads of winter. The leaves, once brittle and gray, are now a deep emerald green, stretching and thickening into a soft maze of life that seems to pulse with each heartbeat. Tiny buds have begun to blush at the edges of thorned stems—some shy and tightly furled like clenched fists, while others are bold and eager, their petals unfurling to drink in the sun in an explosion of coral and cream. The grass beneath my feet is lush and damp from morning dew, bending slightly with each step. Somewhere deeper in the labyrinth, a blackbird trills a liquid song, but even its melody sounds muffled and distant, as if filtered through layers of silk.
I should feel comforted here. This garden used to wrap around me like a mother's embrace, but now it feels too large and too empty, the spaces between the rosebushes yawning like open mouths.
Perhaps it is because it's empty. I move to pinch my shawl gently, the rough stitching of the embroidered forest scratching my fingertips like a well worn friend. A sharp pull tugs at my chest—not physical, but something deeper—as I realize that Father will miss the first blooms. Even when I wanted him here with me, when I needed his steady presence beside me like he said he would be—
No. An Empress does not complain. I force my fingers to release the shawl, feeling the fabric whisper against my palms as it falls back into place. My spine straightens, each vertebra clicking into position like armor plates. Empresses do not dwell. They act.
What I need to do is focus on what I can do. Even more now that Admiral Nugen has left, I have to rely on myself. The few supporters I still have feel as fragile as spun glass in my hands. I must do everything I can to keep them, to convince others that I can be empress. Focus on what I know.
But there I find myself in waters so murky I cannot see the bottom.
I am trying, but it seems each turn reveals another unexpected dead end, another wall built from whispers and doubt. Even after we rounded up the culprits—four Bulgeons dead, their bodies growing cold while their blood still stained the courtyard stones. More death. More failure. The court won't stop murmuring since the last attack, their voices buzzing like angry wasps whenever I pass.
My hands clench at my sides, fingernails digging crescents into my palms until the pain grounds me. A whimper of frustration crawls up my throat like a trapped animal, and I swallow it down, tasting copper and shame.
No decisions are being made. No one listens to me. Their eyes slide past me as if I were made of glass, transparent and breakable.
Without my father beside me—his solid presence that made me feel real, substantial—without Nugen's unwavering support backing my words like steel reinforcing silk, it's as if I've shrunk in their eyes. Like a girl dressed up in a crown too heavy for her head, waiting to be replaced by a man they can finally take seriously. A man whose blood runs pure, whose hair doesn't betray foreign heritage with every glance.
I keep asking myself how I can fix it. Going over everything I've learned, but… all I hear back is silence.
I glance down at a bloom just beginning to open, its pale pink petals peeking from behind protective green sepals like a shy child hiding behind her mother's skirts. The sight makes something loosen in my chest.
"If Maddie were here," I murmur, my voice barely disturbing the air as I brush the petals gently with the backs of my fingers, their surface soft as a baby's cheek, "she would tuck you behind my ear and say I needed color to brighten my complexion."
The memory brings a smile that warms my cheeks like captured sunlight, softening the tight lines around my eyes. Then it falters and falls, leaving me colder than before.
"Maddie..."
Her name clings to the air like the scent of these half-bloomed roses—sweet and distant and forever out of reach. It tastes of laughter and shared secrets, of hands braiding flowers into my hair without flinching at its silver strands.
Maddie found me when I didn't know how to belong anywhere, when I was a puzzle piece that didn't fit any picture. She helped me find my way back to Father, showed me how to see myself through eyes unclouded by prejudice. Now they're both gone, and I am unmoored, drifting in waters I cannot chart.
And I can feel the unraveling again, thread by thread, like a tapestry coming apart under careless hands.
I sink onto the nearest stone bench, the cold marble biting through the silk of my gown, seeping through to my bones. The chill shocks my system, but I welcome it—anything to feel something other than this terrible, yawning emptiness. For someone who once treasured solitude like a precious gem, I seem to be drowning in it now.
I close my eyes, letting the garden's hush wash over me like water, trying to press down the panic rising in my chest like flood water behind a dam. My breathing comes too quickly, too shallow. The stays of my undershirt feel too tight, the air too thin.
A voice slices through it.
"Your Empress?"
The voice slices through my spiraling thoughts like a blade through silk.
I startle, my eyes snapping open, heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. My hands fly to smooth my skirts—an instinctive gesture born from years of needing to be perfect, or else be watched, judged, found wanting.
I turn sharply, neck muscles protesting the sudden movement. "Sir Pendwick?"
He's standing there like an apparition—no sound of footsteps to warn me, no rustle of fabric or whisper of grass—his hands clasped behind his back with military precision. His polished slippers barely seem to bend the dewy grass beneath them, as if he weighs no more than morning mist. His coat is fitted and catches the light, finely stitched spidersilk in soft silver-blue that shifts like water when he breathes, a shade lighter than his ruby red hair that's been combed with obvious care. Even his buttons glint like captured starlight. He looks like he stepped out of a court portrait and onto my private stage, too perfect for this wild, honest place.
"Forgive me," he adds quickly, and I catch the slight tremor in his voice, the way his weight shifts from one foot to the other like he's fighting the urge to flee. His throat works as he swallows. "I didn't mean to intrude. You just looked—" He stops, color rising up his neck like spilled wine. "—you looked a little... lost."
The word hits deeper than it should. Lost. Yes, that's exactly what I am.
I blink at him, caught between surprise and confusion, my pulse still racing from the shock of discovery. "How long were you standing there?"
The question comes out sharper than I intended, carrying an edge of suspicion that makes him flinch.
His ears flush pink as summer roses, the color spreading down to his collar. "Not long. I mean—I wasn't watching you! Not watching, exactly. I just—" He flounders like a fish thrown on dry land, clearing his throat and looking off into the rose hedges as if they might offer salvation. His hands fidget behind his back. "I heard you speaking to the flowers. I thought maybe you were in distress."
A small, tired laugh escapes me before I can stop it, surprising us both. It sounds rusty from disuse. "No distress. Just... thinking."
"Then, do you mind if I join you?" he asks, offering his arm in that stiff, overly formal way boys our age tend to adopt when they're trying very hard to be grown men. There's something endearing about the earnestness of it, the way his elbow juts out at precisely the right angle despite the uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
"Of course," I say, and take his offered arm. His sleeve is warm beneath my palm, the fine fabric soft over the solid muscle beneath. He's grown taller since I last noticed—slightly too tall for me to reach comfortably without stretching. I have to angle my shoulder higher, tilt my head up to maintain the proper connection, a detail I doubt he notices but one that makes me acutely aware of the space between us, the way my body must adjust to accommodate his.
We begin to walk slowly through the garden paths, our footsteps creating a soft rhythm—the muffled whisper of silk slippers against grass, the gentle crunch of scattered petals beneath our feet. The soft sounds seem amplified in the morning quiet, intimate somehow.
Is he waiting for me to speak? I wonder, feeling ridiculous for not knowing the rules of this kind of companionable silence. The weight of conversation hovers between us like a soap bubble, fragile and ready to burst at the wrong word.
"Sir Pendwick—"
"Your Empress, I—"
We both start at once, our words colliding in the air between us, then fumble into embarrassed silence. I feel heat rise in my cheeks, and from the corner of my eye, I see him duck his head, shoulders hunching with mortification.
"You first," I say, my voice gentler now, touched with amusement at our synchronized awkwardness.
"No, please—Your Empress." His voice cracks halfway through my title like ice breaking, and he clears his throat violently as if he could erase the sound from existence.
We pause at the corner where the roses are still curled into tight green buds, their secrets locked away until the sun coaxes them open. The trellises stretch overhead, still sparse with early growth, creating a delicate lattice of shadows across our faces. All folded flowers. All waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.
Finally, Pendwick draws in a breath so deep I can see his chest expand beneath his fitted coat, like a man preparing to dive into deep water. "Your Empress. I hope I'm not being... rude. But..." His adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. "May I ask—are you lonely?"
The question hangs in the air between us like morning mist.
"Me?" I blink, genuinely surprised by the directness of it. "Lonely?"
He nods, his eyes wide and earnest, as though terrified I'll be offended by the presumption. The vulnerability in his expression makes something twist in my chest—not unpleasant, but unexpected. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
It's oddly liberating, hearing the word spoken aloud. Lonely. Such a simple word for such a complex ache.
But when I try to form a denial, the words catch in my throat like thorns. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, but somehow simpler than any lie I might construct.
"Perhaps I am," I say softly, the admission feeling both dangerous and relieving. My voice sounds smaller than I intended. "Everyone seems to have something to do, someone to be with. Even my cousin is busy nowadays with his own concerns."
"You're always doing something," he says quickly, earnestly, his words tumbling over each other in their haste to reach me. "More than anyone else. You work harder than—"
"Me?" I glance up at him, genuinely amused now, my eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You noticed?"
Pendwick's eyes dart forward, away from mine, and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth so hard I wince in sympathy. A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Yes. I mean—yes, I noticed. Forgive me if that's bold. I didn't mean it boldly. I meant it plainly. I—" His words trip over themselves, each one making him redder.
"Sir Pendwick," I interrupt gently, trying to hide the smile that wants to spread across my face. He's fidgeting so much his sleeve keeps brushing against mine, creating little whispers of contact that I find oddly comforting. "You may say what's on your mind."
He stops walking abruptly, turning to face me with sudden, startling seriousness. His hands fall to his sides, and for a moment the nervous boy disappears, replaced by someone older, more certain.
"You work very hard," he says, his voice steady now, each word carefully weighed. "Harder than anyone realizes. Harder than anyone should have to."
The compliment lands with unexpected force, like a stone thrown into still water. I blink, startled by the ripples it creates in my chest. No one says things like that to me. Most days, I only ever hear what I lack, what I must do better, what still isn't enough to satisfy the endless appetites of court and crown.
"I..." The words stick in my throat. "Thank you," I manage finally, my voice softer than I mean it to be, almost a whisper.
Pendwick's face turns the color of deep roses. He looks down, kicking the toe of his polished slipper into the soft grass like a scolded schoolboy, all his momentary confidence evaporating.
"Actually," he mumbles to the ground, "I wanted to make a request."
"A request?" I tilt my head, and the curiosity feels welcome—lighter than the weight that's been pressing against my chest since yesterday, since the attack, since Father's absence became a permanent ache.
"Yes, I—" He doesn't look up, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. "Only if it's not too much trouble. I mean—only if you'd like to. It's not a command sort of thing. Obviously. I know you're the Empress. I'm not presuming to tell you what to do—"
"Sir Pendwick," I interrupt again, my brow lifting, lips curving into what feels like my first genuine smile in days. "Just say it."
He groans, a sound of pure mortification, his eyes squeezed shut like he's bracing for physical impact. Then the words burst out of him:
"Can you call me by my name?"
I blink, genuinely confused. "Your name?"
His ears immediately flame scarlet, the color spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. "Unless that's too informal," he rushes to say, the words tumbling over each other. "I don't want to put you in any awkward position. I just thought, since we've spent time together—though not too much time, of course—well, maybe a little—but it's perfectly fine if you'd rather not—"
His hands rise as he speaks, gesturing wildly like startled birds before dropping helplessly to his sides. He stares at the ground as if willing it to open up and swallow him whole. "That was too forward of me. I should never have asked. Please forget I said anything."
"No, it's fine," I say, surprised by how soft my voice has become, how the words seem to gentle themselves without my permission.
Almost without thinking, I smooth a hand over my hair—a nervous habit I thought I'd conquered—then tug gently at the seam of my sleeve. Small, reflexive motions born from the sudden, acute awareness that I'm standing exposed in a garden with someone who's really looking at me. Not just at the crown, not just at what I represent, but at me. Anastasia. The girl beneath the title.
The realization makes my skin feel too tight, too warm.
"And you're right," I continue, my voice gaining strength.
Pendwick's head snaps up, hope and disbelief warring across his features. "I am?"
"It is rather silly to maintain such formality between us when we're..." I gesture at the intimate space we occupy, the garden walls that shield us from prying eyes and listening ears. "When we're in such close proximity." I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile, and watch wonder bloom across his face like sunrise.
"You—Your Empress?" he stammers, still caught between disbelief and joy.
"If I'm to call you by your name, then I ask that you call me by mine." The words feel bold leaving my lips, more daring than I expected. Then I hesitate, propriety reasserting itself. "I mean, in private, that is. When we're alone like this."
Pendwick looks as if I've handed him the stars themselves, as if I've granted him access to some sacred space. "Yes, Your—" He catches himself, takes a breath, and says carefully, reverently: "Anastasia."
The sound of my name in his voice scrapes against something inside me, unfamiliar and not entirely comfortable. It's been so long since someone said it without titles or ceremony, just my name shaped by another person's mouth. I scratch absently at my palm, a nervous gesture.
"It feels odd to hear it spoken aloud," I admit, watching his face for signs of regret or discomfort. "Intimate, somehow."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Pendwick says immediately, alarm flashing across his features. "Should I stop? I don't want to make you uncomfortable—"
"No. It's fine," I say again, and this time I mean it completely. There's something about his nervousness that steadies me, makes me feel more solid, more real. "I like it, actually. It's just... different."
"Different how?"
"I only ever hear it from my father and brother. And, of course, my cousin—" The words slip out before I can stop them.
"You mean Lord Mykhol," Pendwick cuts in, and something in his tone makes me look at him sharply. His voice has dropped, gone flat and cold, and his posture stiffens like someone has poured ice water down his spine. The pleasant warmth between us seems to dissipate.
"He is family," I say carefully, though something in Pendwick's reaction makes unease prickle along my spine. Then I try to lighten the moment with a small laugh. "Though I doubt I could get him to stop using my name even if I tried. He's never been one for excessive formality."
I look toward a nearby rosebud, tightly furled and pink-tipped like a secret waiting to be told. The sight usually calms me—so delicate and orderly, unlike the chaos that seems to swirl constantly around me—but today even the roses can't quite settle the restless energy beneath my skin.
"Mykhol can be rather pushy sometimes," I continue, trying to dismiss whatever shadow has fallen over our conversation. "But he's harmless enough."
Harmless. I repeat the word silently, like an incantation. My hand drifts unconsciously to my chest, to the soreness that hasn't quite faded since yesterday's confusion in the hallway, since the strange intensity in Mykhol's eyes that I can't quite categorize or forget. It will fade. These things always do.
"Your Empress—I mean, Anastasia," Pendwick says, and I can hear him testing my name again, rolling it around his mouth like he's trying to make it fit. He's nervous again, twisting a ring on his thumb in tight circles.
"Yes?"
"I don't know how to say this..." He trails off, looking genuinely distressed.
"What is it?" I turn to face him fully, caught by the serious note in his voice.
"There are rumors," he blurts, then immediately looks like he wishes he could snatch the words back from the air.
I sigh, feeling suddenly tired. "Oh, those. They're complete nonsense, you know."
"But—"
"I'm not marrying anyone anytime soon, despite what the gossips might prefer," I say firmly, waving a hand to brush the issue aside like an annoying gnat. "I wish they'd stop spreading such ridiculous speculation. Especially about my cousin. That would be..." I make a face. "Absurd."
Pendwick gives a laugh that sounds more like he's choking, his face cycling through several shades of red. "I could never—I mean, that's not—"
"No, I'm not talking about those rumors," he cuts himself off abruptly, his voice suddenly serious, weighted with something that makes my stomach clench. "Though I... I did hear those too."
His eyes flick away from mine, and there's something unreadable in his expression, something that makes the air between us feel charged and uncertain. A cool breeze stirs the rosebushes, brushing petals against my sleeve like ghostly fingertips, and I shiver despite the warmth of the sun.
"There are others?" I ask, my spine straightening instinctively, preparing for impact.
"Yes." He grows solemn, his youthful face aging years in an instant. Pain flickers across his features as if speaking the words physically hurts him. "It's been circulating for some time, but now, with the king gone, it's been growing louder. Bolder, even."
"What is it?" I press, though part of me doesn't want to know, would rather stay in this garden bubble where the worst problem is choosing which roses to admire.
He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows hard enough that I can see his throat work. When he finally meets my eyes, there's something fierce and protective burning there that catches me off guard.
"They're saying... things. About your rule. About how things have been going with the Bulgeons—there are those who don't agree with your efforts to grant them citizenship. They think you're too soft, too..." He stops, the word clearly burning his tongue.
"Too what?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
"They think you're weak because you're a woman. And because you're not..." He stops again, as if saying the words will wound him as much as they wound me. When he continues, his voice is barely above a whisper. "Because you're not completely... full-blooded."
The words hit like physical blows, driving the air from my lungs. A coldness slips into my chest, spreading outward like spilled wine, staining everything it touches. I've heard whispers before, caught fragments of conversations that died when I entered rooms, but having it spoken so plainly, so directly, makes it real in a way I wasn't prepared for.
Before I can respond, before I can even process the full weight of what he's said, Pendwick steps closer. His movement is sudden, decisive, and then his hands are on my shoulders, palms warm and steady through the silk of my gown. The touch grounds me, pulls me back from the spiral of hurt and rage that threatens to consume me.
"You can always rely on me, Your Empress," he says, his voice earnest and urgent, eyes wide and bright with unshed tears that seem to be for my pain rather than his own. "I will always be by your side. I have always been loyal to you, and I always will be."
The declaration hangs between us, fierce and protective and surprisingly moving. Something loosens in my chest, some knot I didn't realize had formed.
"Thank you, Pendwick," I say softly, meaning it more than he could possibly know. "I appreciate your support more than you know."
He inhales sharply, and I see something shift in his expression, some internal battle being fought behind his eyes. "Of course, I—I wish I could be more than just support if you—I mean, I'd like to be your—"
He freezes mid-sentence, his face cycling through several shades of red before settling on something close to burgundy.
"Friend?" I offer gently when he seems incapable of continuing, trying to ease his obvious distress.
Pendwick blinks rapidly, looking like I've just offered him something precious and fragile that he's afraid to accept. "Friends. Wait—yes. I mean no. I mean..." He takes a shaky breath. "Yes. Friends. For now."
There's something in those last two words that I don't quite catch, some deeper meaning that floats just beyond my understanding, but I'm too grateful for his kindness to examine it closely.
"That would be nice," I say simply, and mean it.
I turn back to the roses, seeking the peace they usually bring. Soft petals catching the light like silk. Warm sunlight painting everything golden. The drowsy hum of bees moving lazily among the blooms, drunk on nectar and possibility.
But even as I try to sink into the garden's tranquility, I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched. A prickle runs down my spine, and I turn slightly, scanning the paths and arbors for signs of movement. Nothing visible, but still...
I tell myself it's nothing. Just a bird rustling in the hedges. The gardener making his rounds. The wind playing tricks with shadow and light.
And yet, I find myself smoothing my skirts again, straightening my shoulders as if preparing for an audience. As if someone might step out from behind the roses at any moment, and I need to be ready.
When I turn back to Pendwick, he's moved closer to one of the bushes—a magnificent specimen heavy with pale blush roses, their petals so delicate they seem to tremble with each breath of air. He's staring at one bloom in particular, his hand hovering near it like he's afraid to touch something so beautiful.
Then, with visible effort, he reaches out and carefully plucks the rose from its stem. The movement is gentle, reverent, as if he's handling something sacred.
I blink in surprise. "What are you doing?"
"I thought maybe..." He pauses, visibly gathering courage, his fingers trembling slightly around the rose's stem. The thorns must be pricking his skin, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Maybe you'd let me put it in your hair?"
The words fall between us like stones dropped in still water, creating ripples I can't control. My breath catches, lodges somewhere between my lungs and throat. I stare at him, unsure I've heard correctly, unsure of anything except the sudden racing of my heart.
My hair?
People don't touch my hair. Not willingly. Not without wrinkling their noses or making barely audible comments under their breath about its color, its unclean nature. Even Naska, who has been with me for years, still tenses slightly when she has to tend to it, though her complaints have softened to bouts of gentler repulsion. No one has ever wanted to touch the silver strands that mark me as half-blood, as other, as not quite belonging anywhere.
But Pendwick—
He holds the rose like it's made of spun glass, like I am something precious rather than problematic. His eyes search my face with an expression I've never seen directed at me before—not pity, not calculation, but something that looks almost like reverence.
There has only been one other person who has ever looked at my hair like that. Nicoli. Only he has ever looked at me like the silver was something to be treasured rather than hidden.
Pendwick steps closer, close enough that I can see the fine tremor in his hands, smell the clean scent of soap and starch that clings to his clothes. "If that's alright with you. I just thought—" His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I thought it might suit you. The pink against the silver."
He's so close now that I can see every emotion flickering across his face—the uncertainty warring with determination, the fear of rejection battling with something that might be hope. There's no disgust there, no barely concealed distaste. Just nervous anticipation and a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
He wants to touch my hair. Not out of duty or necessity, but because he thinks it would be beautiful.
"Are you sure?" The question comes out smaller than I intended, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to take it back.
He nods, and the pink spreads from his ears all the way down to his collar, but his voice is steady when he speaks. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
The simple declaration undoes something inside me. I swallow hard, trying to process this moment, this gift he's offering without even realizing its magnitude.
Slowly, carefully, I turn my face slightly to help him, angling my head so he can reach the silver strands that usually remain hidden beneath carefully arranged braids and the shawl. The movement feels like baring a wound, exposing the part of me I've learned to keep concealed.
His fingers brush against my hair, and I stop breathing entirely.
The touch is feather-light, reverent, like he thinks my hair might dissolve if he's not careful enough. His fingertips graze my temple, slide along the curve of my ear as he positions the rose. I can feel the slight tremor in his hands, the careful control he's exercising to be gentle.
I don't move. Don't breathe. Don't dare disturb this moment where someone touches the most rejected part of me with tenderness instead of tolerance.
The rose settles just above my ear, its soft petals brushing against my skin like a whispered promise. Pendwick's fingers linger for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if he too is reluctant to break this spell we've woven between us.
He lets out a breath like he's been holding it since the moment began, and steps back just enough to see his handiwork. The look on his face—wonder and satisfaction and something deeper that I don't dare name—makes warmth bloom in my chest.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and I know he means both the rose and something else entirely.
Then—
The world shifts.
A sound cuts through our perfect moment—not gentle, not welcome. The harsh rustle of disturbed foliage. The snap of breaking twigs underfoot. The air itself seems to change, charged with a presence I know before I see it.
The scent hits first, overwhelming in its intensity: sharp pepper that makes my nose burn, rich leather worn soft with age, the acrid bite of crushed tobacco that clings to expensive fabric. Not faint. Not subtle. A wave of familiar fragrance that crashes over our garden sanctuary like a storm surge.
Then the air shifts, becomes heavy with purpose and barely restrained fury.
Before Pendwick's fingers can fully settle the rose in place, before I can even turn to see what approaches, I am yanked—not cruelly, but with absolute authority—backward into a solid chest. A strong arm coils around my middle like a steel band, anchoring me against a body that radiates heat and tension. The movement is so swift, so complete, that the world tilts for a moment.
Mykhol.
His chest rises and falls against my back in rapid, uneven rhythms, as if he's been running or fighting to control something wild inside himself. His body trembles faintly behind me—not from exertion, I realize with growing alarm, but from fury barely kept in check. I can feel it in the tight coil of his muscles, the way his arm tightens possessively around my waist.
"What—" I start to say, but the word dies in my throat.
"What did I tell you about being alone, Ana?" His voice comes out low and dangerous, vibrating against my ear with barely controlled intensity. But he doesn't look at me when he speaks.
He says it to Pendwick.
The rose slips from Pendwick's nerveless fingers like a dying bird.
It tumbles through the air in slow motion, pale petals catching the light one last time before gravity claims it. The soft thud as it hits the stone path seems unnaturally loud in the charged silence.
It lands between our feet—Pendwick's polished slippers and Mykhol's expensive boots forming a triangle around the fallen bloom.
Unworn.
Unchosen.
Rejected.
I watch, transfixed and heartbroken, as the petals begin to bruise where they touch the unforgiving stone. The pale pink edges darken to brown, and something that was perfect moments ago starts its inevitable decay.
The sight makes my chest ache with a loss I can't fully name.