The vision was stronger. She was standing on a wet cobblestone lane. Fog clung to the ground. Ahead, through a wrought-iron gate, she could see a garden. But it was a wrong garden. The flowers were all the same shade of crimson. The trees had no leaves, only bare, twisted branches. And in the center, on a stone bench, sat a man in a gray coat. He was young—maybe thirty—but his eyes were ancient, tired, and full of a loneliness so vast it felt like a physical weight.
"Grandfather?" she whispered in the vision. forever roses
"But why give it to me?"
It was like the moment before a sneeze, a pressure behind her eyes, a ringing in her ears. She saw— felt —a flash of something: a cobblestone street in the rain. A man in a gray coat, turning a corner. The smell of bread and coal smoke. The vision was stronger
Elara looked down at the rose. The single drop of her blood was already gone, absorbed into the stem. Ahead, through a wrought-iron gate, she could see a garden