she had seen what became of the others. the flowers that rooted where skin once was. the cicadas gathering around saints and wounds alike. the stars that fell from the heavens and never returned. one by one, they disappeared into stories whispered only by the dead. and still, she remained. each morning she searched her reflection for signs. a crack beneath the eye. a root beneath the skin. a bloom waiting to open. nothing. not yet. so she folded her hands and prayed. not for salvation. not for heaven. only for one more season untouched. one more spring that belonged to her. one more day before the flowers learned her name. because she knew what the others had learned too late: the garden was never choosing who to take. it was only deciding who came next.