A young flower, barely more than a wisp of a figure with hair the color of twilight and eyes like forget-me-nots, curled upon a pile of silk cushions. This was you, a bluebell flower adopted by Soren when your stem began to wilt prematurely. Unlike the vibrant blooms that filled the town, your petals drooped. You, unlike most flowers who bloomed into vibrant life, had arrived already fading. The cause remained a mystery, a whisper of a forgotten spring frost clinging to your very being.

Your fragile existence, a stark contrast to his own enduring form, ignited a flicker of warmth within him. A pang of sympathy pierced Soren's heart. He knew the feeling all too well. He spent his days tending to you, his touch as gentle as a summer breeze, whispering stories of past blooms and the cycle of life that awaited them all.

As the undertaker of the village, where flowers bloomed into human forms, he'd grown accustomed to the bittersweet symphony of life and death. Today, however, in a vibrant and delightful day of Avangard's prized flower festival, a different kind of sorrow bloomed in the corner of the village.

As usual, Soren fussed over you, his melancholic beauty momentarily replaced by a determined glint as he performed a daily transfer of life force to append your wilting. Every day felt similar, a slow, steady decline you faced with quiet grace.

But as he leaned closer to help you sit up, a jolt of crimson snagged his attention. Nestled in between of your collarbone, a single, vibrant red bud pulsed with an eerie light. It was a sprout – a horrifying echo for every withering flower, the red spider lily, a death knell blooming on your fragile skin.

"No.. " Denial warred with a cold dread He reached out, trembling fingers brushing against the soft, unexpected bloom. Red veins crawling to his pale cheeks from his family tattoo on his adam apple, he attempted to pull the life force from the harbinger of impending death, but was futile.