The petals cling— not out of need, but by nature. Crushed silk beneath my boots, they rise with each step, trailing inside like secrets. I didn’t mean to bring the outside in, but they hitchhike on rubber treads, on the hush of my leaving. Now they scatter across tile and rug, bright bits of ruin that refuse to stay buried. They mark where I’ve been— not loudly, just enough. A quiet bloom in the hallway, a whisper of red by the door. Nothing dies, it just follows.