Every soul bore within it the quiet ache of goodness—a seed nestled deep, yearning to rise. Given time, it might bloom, might stretch its tender reach toward the light and leave behind a softness that lingered long after. Such was the nature of life: to begin, to endure, to begin again.

Hardship was part of the turning. The wind came, the storms pressed low, and still, they learned to bend. Like flowers, souls did not choose the soil into which they were sown. They did not choose the cold or the hunger of roots searching for what was never there. They only grew. They only tried.

But not all who grow survive. Not all who endure remain untouched. Even the brightest bloom, if left too long in shadow, begins to curl inward. Fragrance sours. Color fades. Goodness—once tender and whole—may turn bitter in the veins, twisted by want, by grief, by the long ache of being unseen.

Even the most radiant soul, given enough sorrow, can learn to sharpen its edges. The world does not mourn when something delicate is lost—only when it dares to become something else.

This is the story of a flower that rose in the cracks—reaching, straining—only to be quieted before the season turned. Cause even the hardiest bloom can wither. 

This is the story of how he died.