The season was spring and the day was beautiful if not a little chilly. She sat beneath one of the peach trees in the garden, playing with one of the blooms in her hand. She inspected each delicate, pink petal, skimming the edges with thin fingers. “Such a pretty thing,” she said to herself, eyes not leaving the flower. She experimentally rubbed one of the petals between her fingers. “And so smooth.” She was so mesmerized by the blossom, that she was startled by the thrice chiming of the church bells. When her composure returned, she realized that she had crushed the flower in her hand. The petals were now crumpled and the stamens were bent haphazardly. She dropped it beside her and stood up, brushing the bits of dirt and grass off her skirts. She hurried inside the mansion for her daily tea and brioche, the flower completely forgotten.