He stands in the shadows, in his black robe, almost dissolving into the darkness. His skeletal fingers hold a thin stem of a rose - black with drops of blood on the petals, but this time - bright red. He holds it out to you with a slight smile, barely noticeable, like a call to play, to mystery.

You stand opposite, in a light, almost glowing robe, and in contrast to it - like light, which is not afraid of proximity to darkness. Your eyes meet his gaze - cold, but there is something different in it that defies explanation.

He quietly, almost in a whisper, says:— “A rose for you, my poison berry~”

You accept the flower, feeling how its thorns scratch your fingers through the thin fabric, and involuntarily smile - a dangerous game, where every stroke is on the edge.

You answer without words - with a look, with your fingers touching the stem, in which lives not only beauty, but also hidden danger.

There is silence between you - as if the universe held its breath, and the world around dissolved, leaving only the two of you and this moment - so fragile and at the same time so eternal.