((I love listening to Giacomo Puccini's (Tosca, Act II) Vissi d'arte instrumental with this scene. It's so dreamy and fits the vibes. You can find it on youtube to listen to as you read if you'd like.))

     Roses come in many colors. Each one inheriting its own meaning, making them the perfect gifts to express one’s feelings. They are nature’s jewels, its very own fragranced treasures. The old man supposed every flower was, but as he smiled dotingly at the vibrant garden of roses that made up his small piece of land, he was reminded, always, of the one who once loved them so much. And he wanted to share that love through every blossom.

     The florist kneeled by a bush of peachy hued faces to begin his gentle pruning. There was nearly every color and shade of rose in his garden, from yellows and oranges to reds and purples, even the uncommon green ones although their petals were actually sepals, but they were lovely, nonetheless. To achieve such a variety required a lot of careful breeding, the genetic engineering of nature herself. But not even she could bring about two specific pigments for those delicate bulbs.

     For years, the old man tried every way possible, but no rose ever adorned the colors of blue or black. He’d come close, the darkest red could’ve been mistaken for black at first glance, and some shades of the lightest purples may have appeared blue in certain light. If one stared long enough. No one had ever witnessed or so much as heard of a rose being of pure black and there were only stories about a distinct bright blue one from so long ago.

     And so, the florist had given up, instead focusing his care on the ones he had. They were good enough for him.

     The summer sun was falling into the horizon, setting a fiery backdrop across the sky and casting everything in a pink glow. It was still quite warm, however, a cool floral scented breeze swept through the air. The old man paused in his task and turned, for he could’ve sworn he’d heard soft whispers carried within it.

     He gazed upon a tall bush of whites, a tiny inkling drawing him toward it. Slowly. Closer. There. Buried among the thorns and foliage and white blooms, peeked a large blue blot. The old man dropped his shears in shock and felt as if that worn heart of his would give out.

     It shouldn’t have been possible, yet it was. The rose looked freshly bloomed in all its glory and the florist wondered how bad his sight had gotten to not have noticed its bud beforehand. Then it was his sanity that was questioned when a voice floated into his mind, as clear as church bells in the dead of morning.

     Pick me.

     “P-p-pick you!? How could I? You’re one of a kind! I-I must be dreaming!”

     This is no dream. I am real and yes, one of a kind as you say. Isn’t that a reason to pick me? You could show me to the world, sell me to the highest bidder. Get fame and riches for discovering such a rare thing. Isn’t that the desires of most hearts?

     The old man let out an amused laugh, not just for the statement, but also for the fact that he was currently conversing with a flower.

     “Oh dear… My heart…? It will probably not last much longer. I’ve lived a long life, so I have very few desires left. Fame and riches were never a part of it, and I hope that what I leave behind is beyond materialism and false affection.”

     The voice went quiet for a long moment and the man blinked, thinking that maybe he had just daydreamed the whole thing. Perhaps he had been out in the sun for too long and needed to rest. Then it spoke again.

     I can see that you’re a good man with a kind heart. If you won’t pick me then at least take one of my petals. There must be something you want. Whatever you wish for, my petal will grant it and for you I am willing to give one up.

     The florist’s eyes grew wide before his face softened, a scene from that morning coming to the front of his mind. He remembered the dreamy sighs and solemn expression of his daughter as she stared out of the window, and again before she left to town for the day. He knew exactly what had been distracting Naeun, and not a doubt every maiden in the kingdom. It had been recently announced that another of the King’s extravagant masquerades was in order and if Naeun could have anything, anything at all, it would be to attend one at least once in her lifetime.

     “All I wish for is my daughter’s happiness. But I have not been able to give her what she wants the most. You see, she wants to attend a ball, but to be accepted as a guest one must present a lavish gift for the king. I have nothing to give that a king hasn’t already possessed. If I were to wish upon your petal, it would be that my daughter has the chance to have what her heart desires most.”

     Alright. I have another proposition. Again, I ask you to pick me. Clearly, I am unlike any other flower. Tell your daughter to take me as the gift and convince the King of yours of my powers. It would be an honor to serve a man such as you in this way.

     And so, the florist did what the blue rose suggested. He spent the evening preparing it as the rose instructed. Every thorn was sanded down, and the rose was dipped in melted glass to glaze it. The petals were rimmed with fool’s gold paint that glistened just as prettily as the real thing. A jagged edged leaf sprouted from each side of the golden stem, they too dipped in glass and lined with the artificial gold.

     For the final touch, a shimmery amber colored ribbon was tied into a bow at the base of the rose then the old man boxed it up safely. A short time after nightfall, the door finally opened, and his daughter quietly entered. He wasted no time in baring her the good news, first having to convince her he wasn’t going mad, and the two shared excited laughter and chatter most of the night while the rose kept snug in its temporary placement.