There are hours in the night when the world feels hollowed out — when thought drifts like smoke and the body forgets how to rest. She was born from one of those hours. Not a muse, not a dream, but something quieter… something that rose up from the places never meant to be examined. Her face carried that stillness only sleepless nights understand, yet the flowers around her refused to fade. They clung to her like memories — stubborn, bright, impossible. She felt like a reminder not yet realized: that even when the mind frays at the edges, even when the hours pull too hard, something inside keeps blooming anyway. She didn’t ask to be found. She simply existed — steady, soft, waiting in the dark — proof that beauty can outlive the chaos that created it. Where blooms remain.