The morning light glows in the room.
Soft. Golden. Almost shy—like it's asking permission to enter, like it knows this space isn't meant for brightness.
My eyes open slowly. The ceiling greets me first—smooth, flawless, the same one I've stared at for years. But something is different. Something has shifted while I was sleeping.
The air is thick with flowers.
Roses, mostly. Their perfume heavy and sweet, pressing against my lungs like something alive—something that's been waiting for me to wake up. The scent clings to the sheets, to my skin, to the back of my throat.
I keep staring at the ceiling.
Last night…
I turn my head, looking around the room.
Flowers everywhere. Spread across the floor like snow that forgot how to be cold. Petals scattered in careless handfuls—white, cream, blush—as if someone emptied an entire garden into this room while I slept.
