“It’s alright, Hana. Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to,” the nun said softly, her kind eyes holding an unspoken warmth.
Hana’s voice quivered as she asked, “...How can you say that?”
The nun smiled, her tone gentle yet firm. “We need to feel pain first, to understand how to move past the thorns.”
“Thorns?” Hana echoed, her brow furrowing.
“Have you seen the roses in the garden?”
“Yes,” Hana replied, her voice softer now.
“Even though there’s a sign that says, ‘Do not pick the flowers,’ people still pick them, don’t they?”
Hana tilted her head, contemplating the question. “Because flowers are beautiful, and they give them to someone they love, to show their care and affection.”
The nun’s gentle laugh filled the air. “Exactly. But tell me, do you remember what I always say about the signs?”
Hana’s lips curled into a small, playful smile. “‘Can’t you read the sign? It says, Do not pick the flowers!’”
The nun laughed softly, her voice like wind chimes swaying in a calm breeze. “Oh, Hana, you’re such a bright soul. You worry too much,” she said, rising to her feet and walking toward the garden. She paused beside an unusual flower with deep violet petals that shimmered in the light.
“People usually pick the most beautiful flowers, don’t they?” she said, gazing at it thoughtfully. “But have you ever noticed this one? No one ever picks it. Do you know why?”
“Because there’s a sign that says, ‘Beware—it’s poisonous,’” Hana replied, half-smiling.
The nun nodded. “This is the Queen of the Night. It only blooms once in a while—quietly, under the stars. People avoid it because they don’t understand it. But to those who take the time to see, it’s one of the most extraordinary flowers in the garden.”
Hana’s smile faded slightly. “Still... no one’s picked it.”
The nun turned to her with a kind look. “Some things aren’t meant to be picked. They’re meant to stand tall, bloom in their own time, and remind the world that beauty doesn’t need to be owned to be meaningful. Just like you.”
Hana blinked, her chest tightening at the unexpected warmth in the nun’s words.
“Remember, child,” the nun continued, “you don’t need to be chosen by others to know your worth. Sometimes, the most remarkable things are the ones that bloom quietly—waiting for the right eyes to truly see them.”
The nun turned to Hana, her gaze softening. “You are your own flower, Hana. Each one of us has our own soil to grow in.”
Hana’s eyes lingered on the Queen of the Night flower, her mind wandering.
“And there’s a reason why people haven’t picked you yet,” the nun continued, her voice soothing. “Even flowers with thorns are admired and cared for.”
“But beautiful things last longer when they’re appreciated and loved without being taken away,” Hana murmured, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.
The nun placed a comforting hand on Hana’s shoulder. “The life you wish for will come to you, Hana. Embrace the difficulties for now. Soon enough, someone will treasure you like the most precious flower in the garden.”
Suddenly, the warmth of the garden faded, replaced by a suffocating chill. Hana blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim, oppressive room.
Dust coated every surface, lingering like an unwelcome memory. The air was thick and stale, the faint light from a cracked window illuminating particles that danced mockingly.
She lay on a sagging bed, its mattress threadbare and unforgiving. The pillow beneath her head was no better, discolored and flat, offering no comfort. A crooked wooden table sat beside the bed, its surface marred with splinters. A rickety chair leaned against it, threatening to collapse under the slightest weight.
In the corner, a heap of shredded clothing lay discarded, a haunting reflection of her tattered existence. Her once-healthy frame had withered, her limbs frail, her skin stretched tight over brittle bones. The cold seeped through her ragged attire, each icy gust a cruel reminder of her solitude. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and despair clung to her like the dust in the air.
“Ugh... So much for the precious flower,” Hana muttered bitterly, her voice hoarse as she shifted on the creaking bed.
She stared at the cracked ceiling, her thoughts tangled in memories of the nun's comforting words. Yet here she was—wilted, forgotten, left to weather the harsh winds alone.
For now, she thought grimly. For now.
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