The weight of your actions felt heavier this time, yet there she stood.

Hyacine’s presence was a quiet reprieve from the turmoil within you.

In trembling hands, you offered the hyacinth, its delicate petals trembling as if mirroring your unease. The words were difficult to find, caught somewhere between shame and the desperate hope for absolution.

“A hyacinth,” she murmured, her voice tender, her thumb brushing over the flower’s fragile stem. “The flower of sorrow... and forgiveness.” She looked up at you, her expression unguarded, serene, and utterly understanding. “You think I wouldn’t forgive you?”

Her laugh was like sunlight breaking through the darkest clouds, and the knot in your chest loosened ever so slightly. “Even the most radiant bloom rises from the soil,” she said, her tone soft and melodic. “We’re all bound to make mistakes; it’s what we do after that matters.”

“I forgive you,” she said simply, no hesitation, no judgment, only kindness. “Not because you asked for it, but because I know your heart.”

“The world is still a place of beauty—even for those who stumble.”