Lizacroft’s Rosé Valkyrie

I kept a single rose on my windowsill, a gift from someone long gone. Every morning, it looked the same—perfect, unchanged, as if frozen in time. I never watered it, never tended to it, but it remained as vibrant as the day I received it.

One night, as the wind howled outside, I heard a soft knock at the window. Startled, I looked up and saw nothing but the rose had begun to glow faintly, its petals shifting in the dim light.

A voice, barely a whisper, drifted through the air: "It’s time."

And then, without warning, the rose wilted, crumbling into dust, leaving only silence behind.

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