I dreamt I was in a room of quiet dawn, where the floor was a grid of cool tiles and the air was the color of a faint blush. In the center of it all stood a single, slender flower, its face turned away as if in thought. It wasn't the sun that gave it life, but memories of light that pooled on the ground around it—a patch of vibrant yellow from a forgotten afternoon, a deep green from a forest slumber, and a sliver of impossible blue from the edge of the sky. These borrowed hues washed over the solitary bloom, painting its pink petals in a shifting mosaic of what was and what could be, a silent story told in colored light.
