[Roses] E
The prince lay on his bed with a sigh. He had spent the day shadowing his parents, a task that had become more frequent—and more exhausting—over the past year. To the prince’s relief, he had time to himself before dinner, though this time was never fully relaxing. Some days he spent his time catching up on work for his studies, but most days he spent dreading dinner with his parents. Every night without fail, the king and queen would talk about potential suitors and suitresses for the prince, or ask questions about his thoughts on the last young man or woman who had been a guest. Some days this could be more exhausting than shadowing his parents, and tonight he was especially dreading it. He had no interest in marriage yet. At the moment he only wanted to rest. He was about to close his eyes when a bright red caught his attention. There, under one of his many pillows, was a rose. A smile spread across the prince’s face. He sat up to observe the rose. It was from the royal gardens, there was no doubt. The prince stood, gingerly picking up the rose before walking to his desk. On his desk sat a vase filled with roses. Some were withered and brown, only a couple of petals desperately clinging on. Some were just starting to wilt. Some were fresh and bright. The prince cherished each of the roses. To him, they were all perfect. Once, his mother told him to throw out the older roses. They were too wilted, out of place, no longer beautiful. He had refused. But when he wasn’t able to explain his attachment to 8
