I was not asleep.
But I was no longer awake.

The room had softened.
Time had loosened.
And color began remembering itself.

This was not a dream —
it was the moment before choosing whether to stay.

The flower did not rise from light.
It rose from hours that would not pass.
From thoughts that learned to whisper.

It did not bloom for the world.
It bloomed for the part of me that was still listening.

I did not touch it.
I only recognized it.

Not as hope.
Not as healing.