George had gone out early in the morning, excited like a child, talking about a plant he’d found in a nursery hidden among the hills. “It’s special,” he told you, holding it carefully, as if it wasn’t just a plant, but a promise.

“Just place it there, near the white rose bush,” he instructed with a calm smile. “I’ll take care of the rest later.”

The pot, glazed ceramic, seemed as fragile as an antique porcelain teacup. You walked through the garden cautiously, as if your steps could awaken something sleeping among the flowers. But the hose that silent snake George always forgets to coil wrapped around your ankle before you even noticed.

A sharp pull. A stumble. And time seemed to slow just before the fall.

The world jolted as you hit the ground. The plant flew from your hands, and the pot shattered against the soil with a dull, cruel sound. You stayed there, on the ground, hands covered in dirt, heart caught in a pause.

He helped you sit up, checking with gentle hands if you were hurt. But then he saw the remains of the pot.

“Oh... no,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. He stared at the broken pieces as if they were a shattered heart.