Thorns and Petals

​“It’s alright, Hana. Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to,” the nun said softly, her kind eyes holding an unspoken warmth.

​Hana’s voice quivered. “...How can you say that?”

​The nun smiled, gentle yet firm. “Because sometimes, we have to feel the sting of the pain to learn how to walk past the thorns.”

​“Thorns?” Hana echoed, brow furrowing.

​“Someone once told me that our paths are scattered with thorns—and enduring them is the very reason we are able to bloom,” the nun reassured her softly. “Endure the pain for a little while longer, Hana. In time, you’ll find your garden.”

“Have you seen the roses in the garden?”

“Yes,” Hana replied, her voice became softer.

“Even though there’s a sign that says, ‘Do not pick the flowers,’ people still pick them, don’t they?” the nun added

Hana tilted her head, contemplating the question. “Because flowers are beautiful, and they give them to someone they love, to show their care and affection.”

The nun’s gentle laugh filled the air. “Exactly. But tell me, do you remember what I always say about the signs?”

Hana’s lips curled into a small, playful smile. “‘Excuse me brothers and sisters but there's is a sign right there and It says, Do not pick the flowers!’”

The nun laughed heartily, a sound like wind chimes on a breezy day. “Oh, Hana." she said, rising and walking toward the garden. She paused beside a peculiar flower. “People usually pick the most beautiful flowers they see, right? But have you noticed no one has picked this one? Do you know why?”

“Why?” ahh I know

.... Because it has a sign that says, ‘Beware, it’s poisonous.’”

“This flower is called the ‘Queen of the Night,’” the nun added, her voice carrying an air of mystery.

"Queen of night?" Hana replied

​“Legend says it only blooms once every 7,777 years, on the night of the brightest full moon. If you whisper your wish to the flower while it blooms, the Goddess of the Night will hear it. But it will only bloom in the place where it first sprouted; even if people uproot it and plant it in their backyards, it will never bloom again.”

​“So... there’s a reason people don’t pick it,” Hana giggled, though her laughter was tinged with a trace of melancholy. “I wish I’d get picked... so I could finally have a family.”

The nun turned to Hana, her gaze softening. “You are your own flower, Hana. Each one of us has our own soil to grow in.”

Hana’s eyes lingered on the Queen of the Night flower, her mind wandering.

“And there’s a reason why people haven’t picked you yet,” the nun continued, her voice soothing. “Even flowers with thorns are admired and cared for.”

“But beautiful things last longer when they’re appreciated and loved without being taken away,” Hana murmured, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.

The nun placed a comforting hand on Hana’s shoulder. “The life you wish for will come to you, Hana. Embrace the difficulties for now. Soon enough, someone will treasure you like the most precious flower in the garden.”

Suddenly, the warmth of the garden faded, replaced by a suffocating chill. Hana blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim, oppressive room.

Dust coated every surface, lingering like an unwelcome memory. The air was thick and stale, the faint light from a cracked window illuminating particles that danced mockingly.

She lay on a sagging bed, its mattress threadbare and unforgiving. The pillow beneath her head was no better, discolored and flat, offering no comfort. A crooked wooden table sat beside the bed, its surface marred with splinters. A rickety chair leaned against it, threatening to collapse under the slightest weight.

In the corner, a heap of shredded clothing lay discarded, a haunting reflection of her tattered existence. Her once-healthy frame had withered, her limbs frail, her skin stretched tight over brittle bones. The cold seeped through her ragged attire, each icy gust a cruel reminder of her solitude. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and despair clung to her like the dust in the air.

“Ugh... So much for the precious flower,” Hana muttered bitterly, her voice hoarse as she shifted on the creaking bed.

She stared at the cracked ceiling, her thoughts tangled in memories of the nun's comforting words. Yet here she was wilted, forgotten, left to weather the harsh winds alone.

For now, she thought grimly. For now.

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