In the corner of the field, there is one Rose left amongst the wasteland of debris and ruin.
Sharp gusts of wind and a torrents of rain sweep through the area. She grows colder, weaker as the days pass.
The stunning whiteness will wane with every passing day. She will reach out to the sun but it is no longer there. Her thin petals are made dim by the suffocating plumes of smoke as she gasps for air.
And when the snow comes to numb her every pain, her petals will fall into the fountain below.