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  There was once a kingdom where spring never slept.

  In Lysandria, flowers bowed to every breeze and the sun whispered gold onto the skin of the hills. Among all its wonders lived a girl who would grow into a queen with thorns behind her smile and regret coiled deep in the corners of her quiet heart.

  Her name was Yong. A name like a song caught between sylbles. She had eyes that could still a room, and a crown of blossoms braided not only into her hair but into the memory of her people. She was born radiant. Raised regal. But once, she had been only a girl—with a scraped knee, a bright ugh, and a boy who loved her far too much for his own good.

  His name was Jess.

  Just Jess.

  A common name for an uncommon heart.

  He was no prince. No courtier. Only a boy with dirt-streaked hands and sun-warmed cheeks, the son of a rose-grafter and a garnd-weaver, whose smile always came with the scent of earth and early summer.

  And oh, how he loved her.

  He loved her with the kind of ache that made him forget how far above him she stood. He loved her with eyes wide open, hands full of hope. On her ninth birthday, he brought her a bundle of roses—deep, defiant red, petals still damp with morning dew.

  “For you,” he whispered, cheeks blooming. “They reminded me of your lips.”

  But she, wrapped in her silks and the need to be admired, wrinkled her nose.

  “Red is so common,” she said. “I like lilies now. White lilies. Everyone knows that.”

  The hurt didn’t show in his voice. It showed in how he pced the flowers down—not dropped, but gently, like ying a dream to rest—and turned away before the tears could reach him.

  And Yong, too proud to call him back, let him go.

  She never saw him again.

  But time has a cruel fondness for echoing things left unsaid.

  Yong grew tall and wise and wondrous, a ruler both feared and adored. Yet there were nights when even the stars seemed too quiet, and she would sit alone beneath the moon-drenched arbor in her royal garden—where roses, now crimson and full, bloomed with the weight of old sins.

  And in those quiet hours, she would whisper to no one,“I wish I hadn’t thrown them away.”

  Then came the decree.

  “Find Jess,” she told the realm. “Tell them: Jess, whom Yong wronged, is to be found and forgiven. If he lives, let him come. If he is gone, bring me his story.”

  And so they came.

  Jesses of every shape and sorrow. Old men who had once loved girls named Yong—some buried, some married, some lost to memory. They wept softly when they saw her. “Not my Yong,” they murmured. “But she looks just like her.”

  Then came the young ones. Princes and lords with gleaming eyes and papers inked with alliances. They brought gifts and ambition, believing her call was for power.

  “There is a Yong in every tale,” they said, “and a Jess in every court. Let us become legend.”

  But they did not know her squirrel’s name.They did not know about the three stirs of honey in her tea.They did not know she once feared snails more than death itself.

  One by one, they failed to be him.

  And still, she waited.

  Until dusk brushed the sky with rose and bruise, and he came.

  No fanfare. No trumpets. Just a man with windburnt cheeks and a heart that still beat like it did all those years ago.

  He came with red roses cradled in his arms—the very color she once called common, and now saw as sacred.

  “I came,” he said, “because you called.”

  She looked at him—and her soul remembered what her eyes had forgotten.

  “I’ve seen so many Jesses,” she said, voice trembling. “And I can’t remember which one you are.”

  But he smiled, softly. Kindly. Wounded.

  “You once wore cherry blossoms in your hair. You named a squirrel Biscuit and cried when it ran away. You told me I could never marry you if I wore mismatched socks—and I spent a summer hiding mine.”

  She gasped.

  “You... cried that day, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” he said. “But I never forgot you. I just… let you go, and hoped the wind would bring me back to you someday.”

  He held out the roses.

  “They bloom from the graft my father taught me. Every spring, I grew them. I don’t know why. Maybe because hope is stubborn.”

  Her fingers touched the petals, and the scent hit her like a memory she’d buried too deep to name.

  She wept.

  And he caught her—like he always would have, had she ever fallen back then.

  “I was a fool,” she sobbed. “I threw away someone who loved me for something so petty. A flower. A color.”

  “You were a child,” he whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek. “And I never needed perfection. I only ever wanted to matter.”

  “You did,” she said. “You still do.”

  They married not with grand procession, but with quiet joy.Under arches of red roses and white lilies.Love and forgiveness, blooming side by side.

  And years ter, when the skies of Lysandria echoed with lulbies, Yong whispered names into newborn ears:

  “To my son, I give your name—Jess.To my daughter, I give a promise—Byong.Love like I failed to, and forgive like he did.If ever you find someone who gives you flowers,take them. Take them, and hold on tight.”

  And so it was.

  A queen who once threw away a rose,found a man who never stopped growing them.