The sun seeped through the dark clouds as the rain stopped, giving the world a brief moment to breathe. However, the heavy, looming clouds still lingered on the horizon, creeping closer with each passing second, ready to release another downpour at any moment.
Inside the glass garden, Fei Chuan stood amidst a sea of flowers. Every kind of bloom surrounded him—whether in season or not, they flourished here without exception.
A particular red rose caught his attention. He reached out and plucked it from the bush, but in the process, a sharp thorn pricked his finger.
Despite the pain, he neither flinched nor withdrew his hand. Instead, he continued to pick the flower. His skin broke slightly, and a small drop of blood smeared the stem he held.
This red rose stood apart from the others. While the rest bloomed openly in full splendor, this one kept its petals tightly closed—as if resisting the urge to blossom, stubbornly holding itself together.