A rose takes center stage—but this story isn’t about the rose. It’s about what no one notices, and why that might matter more.
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Not the rose. Not the lighting. Not even the softness of its color.
What mattered was the thorn near the bottom—blunted, bored, quietly losing its job. No one photographs that part.
No one ever says, “Ah, the base of the stem—that’s where the poetry is.”
But maybe it is.
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