Red Rose.

 

A single red rose stood in the garden, its petals curled tight at the edges like folded velvet.

 Morning dew clung to its surface, catching the early light in small, trembling beads.

 The stem bent slightly under its own weight, thorns guarding a bloom that seemed almost too vivid for the quiet grey of dawn.

 It was the kind of red that didn't ask to be noticed - it simply was, patient and unhurried, waiting for the sun to climb higher and set it fully alight.