You were living in a small, forgotten village surrounded by forests and quiet hills, far from anything touched by royalty. No gilded gates, no marble floors, no silk curtains — only stone paths, wooden fences, and the scent of earth after the rain. You had grown up there, and although life had never been easy, it had always been honest.

You were a poor florist, known by everyone in the village. Your tiny shop was built from aged wood and glass that had long since lost its clarity, but inside it bloomed like a secret garden. Sunlight filtered through the windows and spilled over rows of daisies, lilies, carnations, and roses. The air was always sweet, always alive. Even those who had little money would often stop just to breathe it in.

Some days you barely earned enough to eat. Other days children would trade you buttons or stories for small bouquets. And yet, somehow, your commerce was doing well. Not in coins, but in kindness. In gratitude. In the quiet happiness you brought into the lives of others.

And for you, that was enough.

One May afternoon, as the sun began to dip behind the rooftops, you saw something strange approaching from the end of the road — a white horse. Its coat shone unnaturally bright, almost glowing. The rider wore a long white cloak pulled tightly over his head, hiding his face. When he stopped in front of your shop, the air around him felt heavy with silence.

“I’d like a white rose,” he said.

You couldn’t see who he was, but something about his voice — soft, careful, distant — stirred an unfamiliar feeling in your chest. You chose the purest white rose you had and handed it to him. His gloved fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, yet the moment lingered in your mind long after he had ridden away into the distance.

You didn’t know then that it had been the Prince.

Two weeks later, the peace in the village shattered.

The Royal Family announced new laws. Over the town crier’s trembling voice, you heard their cruelty laid bare: harsher taxes for the poor, tighter control over merchants, deepened restrictions for foreigners. More discrimination. More division. More suffering. All decided by those who had never once stood in a worn pair of shoes or counted their last coins for a piece of bread.

People were furious. Frightened. But afraid to speak.

You were not.

In silent rebellion, you decided to act the only way you knew how.

You held a great sale in your shop. Flowers for everyone — regardless of origin, status, language, or blood. You lowered your prices until there was almost nothing left for you. You tied ribbons in bright, hopeful colors around each bouquet. Soon, the village was filled with blooms carried in trembling hands. People pinned flowers to their clothes, placed them on doors and windows, used them as symbols of unity.

For the first time, you saw real hope bloom in their eyes.

But the crown saw only defiance.

One morning, before the sun fully rose, a letter was slipped beneath your door. Heavy parchment. A red seal stamped with royal authority. Your heart sank as you broke it open.

You were ordered to close your shop immediately. Your fingers shook as you read it.

Your actions were declared unlawful, disruptive, treasonous. You were warned that refusal would lead to severe punishment.

The paper trembled in your hands. The walls of your shop — your sanctuary — seemed to close in around you. Around you, the soft petals you had nurtured now felt like fragile lives hanging in the balance.

You sat behind your counter in stunned silence, the letter spread before you, unsure whether the tears in your eyes came from fear… or fury.

And then you heard it again. Hoofbeats. Slow. Familiar. Powerful.

You looked up.

The same white horse stood in front of your door.

Your heart stopped.

The rider dismounted, boots touching the ground, cloak shifting slightly in the breeze.

You recognized the horse from last time.

And suddenly, you understood. The unknown man who had bought the white rose… …was the Prince of Switzerland.

And he had come back.

For you.