The roses speak.
They oversee the children. Heads leaning in, they guard the princes and princesses, the knights and sorcerers. These are royal dreams wrapped in faded, floral curtains. Battles are won, prisoners freed; lives saved.
Their whispers float on a feather of breeze. A soft scent blesses the pageantry. One freckled princess tucks the fragrance into a tiny box and locks it in her heart.
The gardener tends their roots with gentle skill. He prunes. and speaks life in their secret language. They bloom in thanks and exclaim in sun petals edged in pink joy.
The gardener's work is done. Royalty disperse. The freckled princess still hears the rustle of roses. Muffled voices speak with heavenly memory. She leans in, the breath of the rose on her face. Her heart remembers infinite dreams, tender care, safety.
The roses speak and she hears love.
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