The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 158

In her mind, she began trying to pin down a precise definition for Yves Judd.

She thought about it for a long time, and finally, she landed on one word.

Safe.

Yes. Safe.

This man was safe.

He didn't intrude, didn't take, and didn't expect a single thing in return.

His kindness and care felt like the brief, precious winter sunlight in Scandinavia.

Sparse, perhaps, but profoundly warm.

And most importantly, it was a light that would never burn you.

Even so, Annelise maintained a nearly ruthless level of vigilance over herself.

She refused to let herself form even the slightest dependency on any man beyond the boundaries of a 'neighbor' or 'friend.'

She repeated it to herself over and over in her head.

*Annelise, have you forgotten?*

*The last time you trusted a man without reservation, the last time you relied on one, what did it get you?*

*Four years of a meticulously calculated trap.*

*And the life of an innocent baby you never even got to hold, dead on a freezing operating table.*

What she needed right now wasn't another fleeting illusion of romance.

What she needed was the absolute, impenetrable strength to stand entirely on her own.

One afternoon in late March, the shop was quiet.

Annelise was at the worktable in the back, processing a fresh batch of flowers.

It was a massive bundle of dew-kissed red roses straight from Tor's farm.

The petals were lush and vibrant, blazing like little clusters of fire.

As she was trimming one of the stems, her finger slipped, and a thick, vicious thorn hidden beneath a leaf pierced deeply into her skin.

A bright red bead of blood instantly bubbled up from her pale fingertip.

Without thinking, she brought her injured finger to her mouth to suck away the blood.

She thought she had successfully killed off the weak, compliant Annelise who was so used to swallowing the abuse.

But only now did she realize the truth.

The body's memory was far more honest, and far more stubborn, than she could have ever imagined.

The terror and suppression carved into her very bones couldn't be erased by just a few months of freedom.

Annelise shut off the tap.

Staring at her pale reflection in the mirror, she took a long, deep breath.

Once.

Twice.

Ten times.

Then, very slowly, she forced her clenched, bloodless hand to open.

The prick on her finger from the rose thorn was tiny and shallow. The bleeding had already stopped.

But she knew that somewhere much deeper, hidden in the darkest corners of her mind, there were countless invisible wounds just like it. And those wounds were going to take a very, very long time to truly heal.