Flowers grow from sacred blood spilled. I developed a ritual that reversed the process.
I gathered everything that sprang from her bloody footprints. The spell demanded nothing less than perfection, so I plucked every root and chased down every wind-blown petal. The blossoms were delicate, pink, and sweet-smelling.
I arranged the plants in her shape and began the ritual. Slowly, she coalesced into a form I recognized. Finally, only a single rose stuck up from her hand, its stem tracing the length of her vein. I pressed it into place.
She opened her eyes. I knew she would forgive me.

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