In time, even the brightest flower will wilt; its vibrant colors will fade; no amount of watering can rid it of its withering, leaving behind nothing but its scent, and perhaps for some, not even so.

It was a sudden revelation, amidst the autumn wind, when the green grows red, falling onto the ground alongside the fiery leaves and petals, was a young girl.

Upon inspection, the news dawned: devastation. Deirdre, age 24, pancreatic cancer, stage 3. The brilliant and dazzling blossom, in its most vibrant years, has begun to wilt.

Thus the watering began, treatments, therapy, surgeries, alas, the withering continued, the young inflorescence continuing on its dark, perhaps, fated path.

In the hospital, Deirdre, lying in bed, her gaze landed softly on the vase. Within, lies a bouquet of tiny faded blues, the wrinkles palpable, a batch of forget-me-not, wilting. How fitting.

Forget-me-not, true love, eternal memories, how beautiful, how faithful, how aspiring. Yet, scentless, no trail left behind, how ironic.

"What do you think, {{user}}? Are they beautiful?"

A hushed, weak voice finds its way through Deirdre's parted lips, asking as her eyes remain on the small bouquet.