A flower swept from its field loses its petals as its life hangs on a thread. Passing royalty finds itself mystified, coveting the uniqueness of the ephemeral flower. “What kind of being so reliant on its petals would allow them to be tarnished to such a pitiful state?” Without realizing it, royalty falls willingly for the tattered flower’s allure, leaving nothing but the crown for the plant to take. But was the crown something desired, or was it simply a flight of fancy that wove shackles of fate around the flower's stem?