In the mist of fading, the flower rose one final time as if to give shape to its own end. Its petals trembled in the silence of the air, translucent like skin that can no longer hold the light. Yet from that stillness grew brilliance, a surge of color, a last blaze against decay.
The red burned like memory, the orange whispered of warmth already gone. Everything around it dissolved, the ground, the breath, even the shadow lost its form. And still it remained, perfect for a fleeting moment, beautiful in its impermanence, proud in its surrender to the inevitable.
A moment so intense that even death paused to witness how life can die and still shine.
