The Truth Untold

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Days had passed since their argument, but the memory of it clung to her like a shadow. She hadn't gone back to the garden since. Something about the way he had looked at her his voice cold, his eyes distant made her chest ache. She'd wanted to understand him, to be there for him, but she couldn't push through the wall he had built.

And now? She was left with her fading stock of flowers, trying to make ends meet without stepping foot into the garden where she had once found solace.

"Please, please let's go!" the youngest of her friends whined, snapping her from her thoughts.

"Have you lost your mind? You're way too young for that" one of the older, twelve year old boy said with a roll of his eyes.

"What are you even talking about?" she asked, realizing she had missed half the conversation.

"There's a masquerade ball happening in the rich quarter" another boy explained, chuckling to himself.

" why are you laughing at me?" the little girl snapped, crossing her arms.

"Because how exactly do you plan to get in there?" he shot back. "And how do you even know about it?"

"I overheard people talking!" The little girl admitted, her small face flushing with embarrassment.

"It's out of the question" the boy declared firmly.

The little girl huffed, her hands balled into fists. But her eyes lit up moments later, as though an idea had struck her like lightning.

"The masked prince! He's bound to be there, it's a masquerade ball!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"And that's exactly why you're not going" the boy said in his best imitation of an older brother's tone.

"I'm not saying I'll go, stupid. She should go!" the little girl said, pointing directly at her.

"Me?"

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"They say there's a prize" another boy chimed in, earning an exasperated facepalm from the eldest.

"A prize?"

"What kind of prize?"

"A big one," the little girl said, wiggling her eyebrows with dramatic flair.
"That's what I heard!"

She hesitated, glancing at her threadbare clothes. Even if she wanted to go, how would she ever fit in? The rich would see through her immediately. She'd stand out like a weed in their pristine garden.

"Come on, please!" the little girl pleaded, tugging on her arm.
„I want you to Winn the price!"

"And where am I supposed to get a dress?" she countered, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want me to just waltz in like this?"

"You could borrow one! Like Cinderella!" the girl gushed, her voice dreamy.

"She's lost it" the eldest muttered under his breath.

"It's not a bad idea" another boy interjected thoughtfully.

"The old seamstress likes us. She might help."

She mulled it over, her heart torn. A part of her dismissed the idea as ridiculous. But another part had always dreamed of something more, the part that once stole to survive reminded her that moments like this didn't come often. If she could win the prize, maybe it would change everything.

"All right" she sighed at last.

Cheers erupted around her, and the little girl beamed with triumph.

The next day, she did go to the seamstress, who greeted her warmly. They worked out an arrangement. She would borrow a dress, but only if she returned it undamaged. Afterward, she sold the last of her flowers in the wealthy district, using the small amount of money she earned to pay a deposit for the dress. It wasn't nearly enough to cover the cost, but the gesture seemed to soften the seamstress's heart.

She left that day with a plan and a flicker of hope, though doubt still gnawed at her edges.

Meanwhile, he sat alone in his room, the dim light of a single candle flickering against the walls. The silence pressed down on him, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves outside the window. His mask lay on the table before him, a reminder of the barrier he had built between himself, the world and her.

His fingers traced the edge of the delicate Smeraldo flower resting in a small vase. Its soft blue petals seemed to glow faintly, as though it held some ethereal secret. This flower was special, unlike any other in his garden. He had nurtured it in solitude for years, tending to it with care and devotion, knowing it could never exist in the wild.

Just like him.

The memory of her voice tugged at him, sharp and persistent. She had asked for his truth, not out of malice, but because she wanted to understand him. Yet he had pushed her away, retreating behind cold words and colder walls.

"Why do you hide so much of yourself?" she'd asked.

Because the truth would change everything, he thought bitterly. The truth would shatter the fragile connection they had built.

But now, with her absence stretching endlessly before him, he realized something even more painful. Her not knowing felt like a wound that refused to heal.

He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as guilt twisted inside him. He had seen the hurt in her eyes, the way she had looked at him, searching for something he couldn't give her and when she had turned and walked away, he had felt an ache so deep it was as if a part of him had gone with her.

The Smeraldo flower sat before him, a reminder of what he couldn't say. For years, it had been his secret, just as his face had been. But now, he wanted to give it to her. To show her, even if only through the flower, that he cared for her too in ways he couldn't express.

The thought of her not wanting to see him again was unbearable, yet he couldn't let the silence remain between them.

He ran his hands through his hair, looking at his reflection in the mirror, frustration and fear warring within him. What if she didn't accept the flower? What if she refused to hear him out?

No, he told himself firmly. He had to try.

Tomorrow, he would find her. He would bring her the Smeraldo flower, a gift from his heart, and try to bridge the gap he had created.

And maybe, just maybe, he would finally tell her the truth, the truth that had weighed on him for so long.

Even if it terrified him.

A