Once there grew in the outskirts of town a flower so pretty it was kept in a little park.
Its petals pink and gently punctuated with a hint of white at the end, as if the hand of the creator had painted.
The flower sprout among the green sod and would sway with every breeze, and beam when the sun of morning caressed it warm.
Every day little girl call Aira goes out to the park. She always sat near the flower, speaking softly as if the flower could hear. "I want to be like you, strong even though I'm alone," she said one morning.
However, time passed, and that afternoon, the flower looked different. Its petals began to dry, bowing down to the ground, losing its light. Aira came as usual, but her heart sank seeing her beloved flower almost withering.
She knelt and gently eased a stalk. "You got this, right?
However, what the flower cannot say. Her resignation entirely speaking in shush. The sun in the distance afternoon shed a little more gloom on the garden. Aira crossed her hands together, as though she would pray.
The granny who was there to pick her up saw it and smiled lightly. Aira, hora kumirí ka pat upasai nui. But they havent left. Might have shoots in the same place tomorrow," she whispered as she stroked her granddaughters cheek.
Slowly, slowly Aira said nodding at the flower again. She comprehended that the flower wilting was not the death, it was merely how life continued. . She stood up, holding onto hope, and left the garden with light steps.
Behind the slowly fading dusk, the flower remained standing, although weak. It had taught her a lesson about beauty and fortitude—that everything has its own time.
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