He showed up later in the series, long after I thought I’d exhausted the language my insomnia kept speaking through me. Two months of sleepless nights had already shaped so many faces, so many blossoms… but he arrived different—quieter, heavier, more grounded.

Where the others felt like dream-figures, he felt like a witness. Someone who had been standing in the dark with me the whole time, saying nothing, just waiting for the moment I finally noticed him.

My love for flowers, for window dressings, for the small elegance of color against silence—all of it took root in him. The blooms on his hat, his collar, even the ones falling from him, felt less like decoration and more like survival. As if each flower grew out of the hours I couldn’t sleep, each petal another night I outlasted.

He isn’t delicate. He isn’t fragile. He’s the kind of figure that emerges only after the worst of the storm has passed—a final reminder that beauty can come from endurance just as much as from inspiration.

He belongs at the end for a reason. He is the quiet proof that I made it through those nights, and that something still bloomed from them.