Lyra wakes up to the sound of her older sisters laughing and talking loudly downstairs. She feels like a shadow in her own family—a little sister who's too quiet, too sensitive, and often overlooked. Her mother, however, is her anchor, always finding time to make her feel seen.

  Lyra lingers in her room, sketching flowers in her journal. She’s particularly drawn to roses, with their delicate petals but sharp thorns. Her sketches are detailed and vibrant, hinting at her creative mind.

  Downstairs, the breakfast table is a whirlwind of energy. Her sisters—perfect, confident, and busy—barely notice Lyra as she sits down. Her mother offers her a reassuring smile. “What’s on your mind, petal?”

  Lyra hesitates to share that she’s dreading her group presentation at school, worried her shy nature will make her a target for teasing. She brushes off her mother’s concern and instead grabs her bag for school.

  At school, Lyra feels the weight of her classmates’ stares. While presenting, her voice shakes, and the others in her group subtly roll their eyes or whisper. She feels her cheeks flush and her heartbeat quicken—a familiar feeling of stress that she pushes down until the day ends.

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  As Lyra walks home, she picks a small flower from a roadside bush and twists it in her fingers. The act of focusing on something beautiful calms her nerves. She wonders aloud, “Why can’t life be as simple as this flower?”

  Back home, the family gathers for dinner. The conversation centers on her sisters’ successes—a sports trophy, a stellar grade—leaving Lyra quiet in her seat. Her mother notices and tries to include her, asking about her art. But one of her sisters interrupts with a joke, and the moment passes.

  Feeling invisible, Lyra retreats to her room. She lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling, wondering if she’ll ever feel as confident and special as her sisters.

  That night, Lyra wakes from a vivid dream about a field of wildflowers. The dream was both peaceful and strange—the flowers seemed alive, moving toward her as if drawn by her presence.

  When she sits up, she feels a strange itch on her arm. Turning on her bedside lamp, she sees it: a small cluster of petals, soft and golden, blooming from her skin. She gasps, trying to rub it away, but the petals remain, vibrant and real.

  Her first reaction is panic. “What is happening to me?” she whispers. She pulls her sleeve down, determined to hide the bloom from everyone, even her mother.