Fresh tulips.

Fresh homegrown tulips: once sold by the village girl to sustain her ailing mother. But when death stole her mother’s final breath, hope withered like petals under frost. The blossoms, once vibrant with purpose, now drooped in her hands, lifeless and unmoored. What meaning could they hold when the reason for their bloom had vanished? No coins could resurrect what was lost; no fragrance could mask the hollow silence. The tulips, like her heart, remained—bright yet barren, aching for a dawn that would never come.