She whispered to no one in particular, “It’s worth it to see the flowers bloom.” Even when you plant them just for yourself. Even when no one seems to notice. Even when, one day, a child sees beauty in your dirt-stained labor and calls it magic.

Now, in this alley with danger at every corner, she thought about those thistles. She thought about how even beauty could come wrapped in protection. Maybe people were the same. Maybe her father’s harsh words were his thorns—meant not to destroy, but to protect.