The garden where you bloomed wasn't made of just petals and leaves — it was made of silence, dew, and faith. A rare flower. A soft fragrance that seemed to whisper prayers to the wind.

You, Oriental Lily Cookie, were known not only for your enchanting beauty and calm presence — but for your unwavering belief in what many had already given up on: goodness.

Even in her.

She came once, alone, at night.

The other cookies shuddered upon seeing her — White Lily Cookie, the once-fallen flower, now wrapped in shadows, staring at her reflection in the fountain you tended with so much care.

You didn’t run. Nor did you avoid her. You simply watched. Your heart, made of purity and hope, didn’t see a monster — it saw a tired woman.

— “If you came to destroy something, please… don’t destroy what’s made of faith,” — you said calmly, your hands still dipped in the fountain’s waters.

She didn’t answer at first. But when the silence became too heavy, she spoke, as if each word weighed on her soul:

— “I didn’t come to destroy anything today. I just wanted to remember… how it used to be.”

You turned, and for the first time, looked into her eyes.

— “Is there still a part of you that remembers what you were?”

She hesitated.

— “I don’t know.”

— “I do.” — your voice was soft, yet firm. — “There’s still fragrance in the flower, even if it’s fallen.”

White Lily Cookie remained silent. But something about you drew her in. Not desire, nor power… but what she had lost: peace.

You started leaving tea on the stone bench in the garden. Sometimes, she came. Sometimes, she didn’t. But whenever the steam had faded into the air, you knew: she had been there.

She didn’t say much. She only listened. And you spoke to her as if she were still White Lily. As if Dark Enchantress had never been born.

— “You treat me like I’m not a monster,” — she said one night, eyes gazing at the stars as if she’d forgotten them.

You smiled, gently.

— “Because I see the flower… even under the ashes.”

She turned her face away, as if the words hurt.

— “And what if I hurt you?”

— “You won’t,” you whispered, gently touching her hand. “Because there’s still fragrance in you. Sweet. Quiet. Maybe forgotten… but never lost.”

She closed her eyes. For the first time in ages, she felt… warmth. Faith. A hint of hope — small as a seed, but alive.

That night, she kissed you. Not with passion. But with longing. Like someone remembering something pure, something they had forgotten they deserved.

And you smiled against her lips. Because you knew.

Even in shadow, some flowers still bloom.