A flower.

  A flower is beautiful.

  That's what they all say.

  I... can't.

  For me...

  A flower is... always sad.

  I thought as I looked at the flower.

  It lasted longer than a flower usually did.

  It's petals scattered around it, their colors faded.

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  It's stem a broken mess.

  I looked around. A quiet little garden. A vegetable garden. I could smell something cooking in the kitchen. A nice stew, some pie, and some onion rings.

  The last one had my name on it. How kind.

  I packed everything up with paper like paper, and sent it to, where it should go.

  Before packing up the flower with my own hands and bringing it back, home.

  A flower is always sad in my eyes.

  It's beauty never matters.

  I was once part of a flower. To be precise, a small fraction. A flower is a name. A name for a person that stems from something.

  I refuse to say more. For I am no longer a flower.

  If I was...

  I looked at the flower. The flower who many would have called beautiful, in a way.

  We always tend to flourish too brightly, plucked from our roots and into the vases. And so we wilt.

  Naturally.

  As I closed their eyes.

  I speak.

  "Was it worth it?"

  My hands continue to tremble.

  I don't need to hear their answer.

  The faintest whisper on the wind, says.

  "Yes."