A flower.

A flower is beautiful.

That's what they all say.

I... can't.

For me...

A flower is... always sad.

I thought as I looked at the flower.

It lasted longer than a flower usually did.

It's petals scattered around it, their colors faded.

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It's stem a broken mess.

I looked around. A quiet little garden. A vegetable garden. I could smell something cooking in the kitchen. A nice stew, some pie, and some onion rings.

The last one had my name on it. How kind.

I packed everything up with paper like paper, and sent it to, where it should go.

Before packing up the flower with my own hands and bringing it back, home.

A flower is always sad in my eyes.

It's beauty never matters.

I was once part of a flower. To be precise, a small fraction. A flower is a name. A name for a person that stems from something.

I refuse to say more. For I am no longer a flower.

If I was...

I looked at the flower. The flower who many would have called beautiful, in a way.

We always tend to flourish too brightly, plucked from our roots and into the vases. And so we wilt.

Naturally.

As I closed their eyes.

I speak.

"Was it worth it?"

My hands continue to tremble.

I don't need to hear their answer.

The faintest whisper on the wind, says.

"Yes."