The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 173

In September, Annelise Sargent rolled a suitcase packed with floral tools and semi-finished materials through Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, entirely alone.

As she exited the airport, a wave of air completely different from Oslo's hit her face.

It lacked that crisp, pine-and-melting-snow scent she had grown used to.

Instead, it was replaced by a warm, lazy aroma—a rich blend of strong coffee, freshly baked croissants, and a faint, lingering hint of perfume.

On the streets, ancient Haussmann-style architecture took on a painting-like texture under the golden autumn sunlight.

The pedestrians walked with a brisk pace, carrying a distinctly proud and elegant cadence.

Everything here stood in stark contrast to the minimalist, detached aura of Oslo.

Standing on the unfamiliar streets, Annelise felt a strange, wondrous mix of novelty and nervousness bubbling up inside her.

The international floral design exhibition was being held in a converted old train factory in the 13th arrondissement of Paris.

The massive warehouse retained its rugged industrial framework. The soaring ceilings, exposed steel beams, and pipes created a stunning, highly dramatic visual contrast with the delicate, vibrant floral installations in the exhibition space below.

The event brought together thirty-two top floral designers from eighteen countries around the globe.

Annelise was the most unique participant among them.

Compared to the competitors who had graduated from elite floral academies in the UK, France, and Japan, her resume looked almost laughably thin.

Her 'credentials' consisted merely of her mother's yellowed, handwritten notebook.

And a tiny flower shop tucked away in a corner of Oslo that had only been open for seven months.

Yet the curator, Isabelle, had given her the exact same booth space and respect as the long-established masters.

Two wildly different cultural elements were juxtaposed in her hands within the same space, engaging in a silent yet intensely powerful dialogue.

Her third piece was the most important work she brought to the exhibition.

She named it 'Mother's Garden.'

Using a massive wooden tray that looked like a sandbox, she worked with twenty-five different types of specially preserved flowers and plants.

It was a miniature, faithful recreation of the ideal, imaginary garden her mother had sketched countless times in her notebook.

There were her mother's favorite white daisies, blooming like a vast ocean.

There was the fig tree from her grandmother's backyard that yielded sweet-and-sour fruit every summer.

There was even a replica of the crooked little sunflower Annelise herself had planted on the balcony of the Sargent Residence as a child.