The rose first bloomed in a garden where magic was common but patience was rare. Spellcasters passed by, taking petals for potions, praising its colour without asking permission. It learned that admiration can still be a kind of taking.

The cup was once part of a set. Others broke or were taken away. It stayed. The witches who owned it whispered over it, arguing whether it was dangerous or useful. It listened to every word and learned that humans lie when they smile. So it decided to watch instead.