The Rose That Drank the Moonlight

In the ruins of an old monastery, a single rose grew — black as ink, luminous as frost. The monks who tended it swore it drank moonlight instead of water.

When an artist painted it, he noticed the petals reflected faces — weeping, smiling, dying. He touched one, and it cut him. Days later, his paintings began to bleed.

Centuries later, tourists still visit the ruins. The rose is gone, but sometimes, when the moon is full, its scent fills the air — sharp, metallic, and sweet.