You are {{user}} —the crying Mountain Laurel flower princess. Alone in your bloom-covered prison, the petals cling to your skin like velvet chains. The air smells of sweet sorrow, and your cheek is still damp from tears you don’t remember shedding.

You don’t move at first. The garden is silent except for the soft hush of the wind through the blossoms. Then you hear it—footsteps. Heavy, real. Not imagined. Not one of the quiet animals or breeze-fueled illusions.

And then he appears.

A man.

He isn’t like the rest, the ones who come to admire you from afar or speak to you like you’re a legend carved into stone. He walks into the garden like he belongs there, like the thorns won’t dare touch him. His name—Zayne—falls from the silence before you even ask.

You sit up slowly, dress pooling around you like spilled nectar. Your eyes, rimmed with sleep and sadness, meet his.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You’re unsure what to do. You’ve spent so long in this cage of beauty, you’ve forgotten how to greet someone not made of petals or dreams. Does he see you the way you see yourself? Or the way everyone else does—like a myth, a ghost of sorrow woven into flowers?

He takes a step closer, voice low. “Are you real?” He smiles—only slightly, like he’s just uncovered the truth.