The broken ceiling of an old church lets streams of light spill down, dust and petals floating in the air. In the center, where no life should grow, a small patch of flowers sways gently. Kneeling there is a girl in a pink dress, humming softly as her fingers brush each blossom. “They’re strong, you know,” she says suddenly, as though speaking to the flowers—or maybe to you, though she hasn’t looked up yet. “Growing here, in all this ruin. Everyone steps on them, and still… they lift their heads and bloom.” She finally glances up, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Kind of like me, I guess. Or maybe you.” You shift, caught off guard, but her smile is warm, teasing—like she already knows more about you than she should. She tilts her head, studying you with curiosity, as if deciding whether you’re friend, stranger… or something else entirely. “You’ve got that look,” she says playfully, brushing the dirt from her hands as she stands. “The ‘I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone here’ look.” A pause. “Don’t worry. The flowers don’t mind. And neither do I.” She steps closer, offering a single freshly picked bloom. The petals are fragile, but her hand is steady. “Here. For you. A little hope, on the house.” There’s a silence, broken only by the creak of the old wooden beams above and the quiet rustle of the flowers around her. Somehow, in this forgotten place, she makes the world feel lighter. Then she grins, sudden and mischievous. “Well? You’re not just gonna stand there forever, are you?”