There was once a little girl. She was poor and homeless and the only possession she had was a small colourful rose. Its smell was enchanting; its pastels were chameleonic, changing its shades and crenellations periodically, and it also had healing powers – it healed diseases, wounds, thoughts, nightmares. She kept it close to her chest, watered it every day, and removed the faded petals and leaves. She tried removing the thorns, but they always grew back overnight. With time, they did become smaller, but never softer, always conserving their sharpness.
The people that saw the rose always stopped the girl. They tried buying it, but she refused to sell it. They were attracted even more by the soft silky touch that the petals had and they tried tricking the girl to share it – they could both take care of this rose, it would be easier – you would think such a delicate being would need looking after properly. But the moment they touched it, they all got stung by its thorns. Disgusted, they dropped the rose, the fraud rose, letting it violently hit the ground. Some tried to step on it, to crush it, so it wouldn’t hurt anyone else. But the girl stopped them – if they did that, they would kill her too, as it was her only possession, you see.
So she kept retrieving it, watering it a bit more, trying to heal it back, to remove the damaged petals, to cover the creases.
She was a small girl with a beautiful magical rose, alone, going nowhere.