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.