A crash from the front room startled me—the cat had knocked over a vase. I rushed in to find the flowers inside brittle and dried, their water long since evaporated. I hadn't even remembered to photograph them before they faded. Shooing the cat away from the crumpled petals she was gnawing on, I knelt to gather the mess, lost in a haze of regret and self-reproach. Wasteful, I thought. Careless. But then—something caught my eye. One flower, fragile and weathered, seemed to stretch a single leaf toward me, as if reaching. "Take a photo,"  whispered a voice inside. Reluctant, feeling a little foolish, I obeyed. As I positioned the flower before my camera, I felt it—not just a shape or an image, but an invitation. A question woven into the stillness: Can I trust you? For so long, trust had been something I reserved for others, something I questioned endlessly. Now, standing in that quiet moment, the question turned inward. Could I trust myself? That moment became a beginning. A delicate exchange of trust, guidance, and wonder. An invitation to dive deeper—into intuition, into creativity, into a relationship with beauty that asked not for perfection, but for presence. An invitation to believe again.

I rushed down flights of stairs, heart pounding. I had to find the best place to hide her—the part of me that was still tender, still real. Knowing she wouldn't understand, I locked the small cell. "I'll be back as soon as it's safe," I promised. I couldn't find a way to stay safe and true to myself at the same time. I needed to survive. I hurried back up the stairs and assumed my role—filled with adrenaline, but emptied of my true self. A fog slowly descended, and I forgot how to play, how to smile from my heart, how to truly exist in this world. I was no longer a blaring target, but I was no longer living either. Confused and aching, I tried desperately to fill the void from the outside. I'm certain she cried out for me. But I was so lost, so buried in pain, that I forgot she existed. Life without your inner voice is truly perilous. With each passing year, the weight of betrayal buried me deeper. The more I strove, the further I sank. Until one day, afraid I wouldn't survive another avalanche, I stopped trying to escape. And in the stillness, a voice whispered: "Maybe there's still a way we can live a life we belong in—maybe there's still a way." Her gentle words comforted me. The small, hidden part of me—forgotten but not gone—was still waiting.

A tension stirred within him. He stretched and opened his eyes. Where am I? He found himself in a garden among dried flowers, but none of them moved. Desperate for connection, he ran from plant to plant, trying to stir up a friend—a reflection of his existence. Loneliness welled up inside him. Suddenly, he heard a sound from the neighbor's yard. Kneeling beneath a rosebush, he peered into the walkway. There, he saw something that seemed more like him: movement, sound, life. "Maybe this will help me understand what animates me," he thought. Like the Mystic, perhaps we are all seeking to understand what truly animates us—the quiet pulse that calls us toward belonging, wonder, and ourselves.

She appeared and startled me. Each flower before her had mirrored something obvious deep within me—but not this one. Yet, there was something sweet about her. A flower in prayer. I tried to see myself in her, but pangs of vulnerability rose in my chest and stomach—a deep sorrow, an endless falling. I had felt unseen and unheard for most of my life. I would wake with painful thoughts, feeling victimized and uncared for. I longed for someone to lead and guide me—to take the time to truly know me, and to walk me toward a future that felt safe and supported. I wished for someone who was invested in my life, who cared how I turned out. But no one came. I was afraid. I was emotionally blocked from taking full responsibility for my own life. I waited for someone to notice, to step in, to take charge. But they didn’t. "Isn’t it obvious?" I thought. "Isn’t it obvious that I’m not okay?" I told the people I trusted most—that I was depressed, that I had been betrayed, that I was sick. I asked them to visit. But not much changed. The silence grew louder. The indifference deeper. After I spoke my truth, the calls and visits grew fewer still. And yet— A small voice persisted. Like a tendril reaching for the canopy, it nudged me, again and again, to stretch toward the light of my dreams. I began to listen more closely. When I heard someone share their own story—of triumph rising out of darkness—I paid deep attention. They had turned their pain into a beacon of light. Maybe I had a similar lesson waiting inside me. Maybe the reason no one had been inspired to help me was because I hadn’t yet seen the strength already living within me. Maybe the darkness wasn’t abandonment after all. Maybe it was so I could witness, in the quiet and the loneliness, how God’s presence can reach us no matter how dark it becomes.

She handed me the wildflowers, and I felt my energy drop beneath my feet. I tried to connect with her, but it was like speaking through a fogged dream. I looked at the flowers and could hardly focus. I fell into another abyss of sickness. My body became a foreign place. Even standing was now too much. I pushed it out of my mind, telling myself I just needed to survive—what I thought would last only a month. Sunlight poured over the flowers on the windowsill, softly pulling my gaze. Leery of the web-covered vase, I studied the flowers, searching for something I could salvage. I felt a nudge—uneasy, but certain. I knew I wanted to photograph them. "How long has it been?" I wondered. Three months? Six? Nearly a year, I realized. I quickly buried the thought, knowing the pain it would cause. Not today, I told myself. Today I feel good enough to take a few photographs. Uneasy, yet curious, I brought the horned flower to the camera. There was something here. As I studied the crumbling form, my mind reeled. I didn’t want to look at the time that had passed—the moments missed, the truths unspoken. The horns. The ethereal petals. Symbols of the myths I had told myself—soothing stories to numb the reality, sending me back into the sleep of sickness. I couldn't remember what this flower had looked like before it dried. Still, I couldn't ignore the pull to capture it—to honor its crumbling, ethereal form. The crumbling stairs of my subconscious, the bricks of myth and superstition beneath my feet, and the gentle, permeating voice calling me to look up... and deeply into my now.