I grew her in a skull, and I made her suffer. Left outside in heat, then cold, dragged back inside, forgotten more often than cared for. Spidermites gnawed at her leaves, yet left the flowers untouched — as if even they sensed something sacred in her final work. When she bloomed, it was not despite the struggle, but because of it. The flower is always a farewell, and every grow is only complete in death.