In the final, silent corner of a dream, a single phantom flower persists. It bloomed not from soil, but from the memory of light, its spiky white petals unfurling like a star captured in ice. It stands on a gnarled, woody stem, its light gray leaves brittle with an ancient frost. Now, weary from its solitary vigil in the unending blackness, it begins to droop, its head bowing under the weight of a beauty that no one is left to witness. It is a monument to a forgotten sun, a pale elegy written against the void.
