–Livana–
It's strange—everything is so bright, yet so blurred. But I know one thing: I can see. My husband approached, his tall figure softened by the haze, and in his hand was a rose. A thorny one, or so it should have been. He had already stripped it bare with his Swiss knife, leaving only its velvet bloom.
"What do you think?" he asked, leaning closer, his eyes locked on mine with such intensity that even through the blur, I felt pierced. "It's beautiful, isn't it? A purple rose."
I glanced down at the flower, then back at him.
"It's… fine."
"I've been enhancing the greenhouse," he continued proudly, "making sure every shade of violet blooms there."
"Because it's your favorite color?" I tilted my head, a sly smile tugging at my lips.
"My favorite color," he replied smoothly, "is the color of your eyes."
