The rose thrived.
Kael tended it daily, its crimson petals unfurling in the meadow's fragile peace. But each morning, the soil darkened—a stain spreading like spilled ink beneath the roots. Young Lira avoided it, her shadow shrinking in its presence.
"It's just a flower," Kael insisted, though his hands trembled as he pruned the thorns.
"No," she said. "It's a mirror."
That night, the rose bloomed a second face: Lyra's, frozen in a scream.