She loves the flower because it reminds her of something. Another life. He gave her a bouquet - courtship, perhaps? - but no, that couldn't be. He had not yet come to claim her from her tormentor.

She loves the flower because it reminds her of herself. The sleeping bud that blossoms inevitably into beauty, its welcoming soft scent crowned with guardian thorns. It keeps its own timetable, and opens only when its floral logic dictates that it must. It is her predicament embodied, as inextricable from her as she is from her sleep.

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