The damp scent of rain was incinerated in an instant, replaced by a scorching heat and the hoarse, rhythmic roar of massive bellows.
One moment, Sarah was standing in the quiet, sandalwood-scented shop; the next, the ground beneath her feet dissolved. A wave of dizziness hit her, followed immediately by a sudden, jarring weightlessness.
It felt absurd, almost comical. She looked down to find she had no feet, no body. She was floating in mid-air, a drift of consciousness suspended in the smoke.
Below her lay a cavernous stone chamber. The heat was a physical weight, pressing against her phantom skin. In the center, a white-haired old man sat before a roaring furnace. He held a long iron rod, its tip buried deep in the heart of the fire where golden flames danced a feral, hypnotic dance.
Every so often, he would withdraw the rod. At its end clung a blob of molten, glowing liquid.
Sarah watched, mesmerized, as he worked with feverish precision—firing, tinting, shaping, and splicing. Slowly, a form emerged from the fire. It was unmistakably a flower. The leaves were a vibrant, dripping emerald green; the petals were shaped into a seductive, deep crimson. It was breathing with life.
But just as the final shape took hold, the impossible happened.
The vibrant red drained away. It vanished as if the glass were bleeding out, leaving behind only a sickly, pale pink stain.
The light in the old man's eyes died instantly. With a howl of frustration, he slammed the iron rod against the stone floor.
CRASH.
The almost-perfect flower shattered into dust. Sarah drifted lower and saw the floor was already covered in a mountain of jagged, grey shards.
It was clear: this was not the first failure.
"Why?!" The old man howled, his voice tearing through the roar of the fire. "Why has the color fled again?!"
He grabbed the cooling iron rod, shaking it at the soot-stained ceiling. "She cannot wait any longer! I only wanted her to see the vibrancy of this world one last time before she goes... Why is such a small wish denied?"
Tears mixed with sweat and soot on his face. "A thousand times! It has been a whole thousand times! Heaven, open your eyes! Have you no mercy?"
The scream drained the last of his strength. His eyes rolled back, his breath hitching in a sob. Then, his knees buckled. With a heavy thud, he collapsed onto the floor, lying still among the jagged shards of his failures.
"Hey! Old man! Wake up!"
Sarah shouted, diving toward him. She tried to grab his shoulder, to shake him awake, but her hands passed straight through his body like smoke. She opened her mouth to scream again, but no sound came out—only a silent, suffocating gasp.
She looked around frantically. The furnace was still roaring. But she was alone.
"Where is that damn fox?!" she thought, panic rising in her chest.
She kicked her legs in the air, stomping on invisible ground in sheer frustration. She was floating, useless and voiceless. She was jumping with anxiety, desperate to help, but she was nothing more than a ghost in his tragedy.
Time flows.
When the old man finally stirred, the madness seemed to have drained from him, leaving behind a terrifying, deadly calm. He didn't scream any more, simply walked back to the furnace, placed a fresh gathering of raw material on the rod, and began again.
It was the same dull repetition: firing, shaping, firing.
But when it came time to add the color, he didn't reach for the mineral powders. Instead, he picked up a sharp shard of glass from the floor. With a steady, unshakeable hand, he slashed his own wrist.
Swoosh.
Blood didn't just drip this time; it poured. He held his arm over the rotating rod, letting his life force wash over the molten glass like a river. He didn't flinch. He watched the blood hiss and boil, merging with the silica, dyeing the transparent form into a deep, shocking crimson.
"I cannot let the light fade from your world," a voice—his voice, her voice—wailed in Sarah's mind, echoing through the chamber like a prayer.
Instantly, the glass erupted with an eerie, blinding luminescence. The red upon it seemed to wake up. It wasn't just a pigment anymore; it was alive. The crimson swirled and pulsed, and deep within the blood-red petals, a faint, divine golden light began to shimmer.
The old man stared at the finished work, his face streaked with soot and tears. He fell to his knees, weeping not from pain but from a pure, devastating joy.
"It is done," he sobbed, his voice trembling. "It is finally done."
He didn't care that the glass was still scorching hot. Ignoring the need to let it cool, he grabbed the rod and bolted out of the workshop.
Sarah drifted after him, passing through the stone walls into an adjacent room.
There were no silks or gold—but it was meticulously clean. The floor was swept, the linens were crisp, and on the bedside table stood a small vase of fresh wildflowers. It was a sanctuary of care, a stubborn splash of life in a house filled with soot and ash.
On the bed lay an old woman. Her hair was as snow-white as the artisan's. She was withered and frail, her chest barely rising, looking like a dry leaf clinging to a winter branch.
The old man rushed to her side, falling to his knees. He held the glowing, crimson rose up, its light illuminating her pale face.
"See!" he gasped, his voice trembling with a mix of joy and terror. "Do you see it? It is your favorite flower. It is the red you love!"
The woman's eyelids fluttered. Slowly, painfully, she opened them.
Her eyes were clouded, covered in the gray film of blindness. But the Liuli rose was no longer just an object; it was burning with the artisan's blood and soul. Its crimson light was so intense, so vibrant, that it seemed to pierce through the darkness of her vision.
For a brief, miraculous heartbeat, the gray in her eyes reflected a brilliant, dancing red.
A soft smile touched her lips—weak, but undeniably happy. She lifted a trembling hand, reaching out not to touch the burning glass, but to touch his face. Her gaze was fixed on the rose, filled with a peace that transcended pain.
"It's... beautiful..." she mouthed silently.
Then, her hand fell.
Her eyelids slid closed, shielding the light forever. The shallow rise and fall of her chest stopped. The room fell into absolute silence.
She was dead.
But on her face, the smile remained. She had left this cold, gray world, but in her final moment, she had taken the most beautiful flower in the world with her.