Soon enough, Rosalind observed as the child grew into adolescence, marked by a teenage countenance bearing unmistakable hatred, a heavy presence in her eyes.
"This flower signifies forgiveness," echoed a voice. This time, Rosalind witnessed a lovely teenager, her smile warm, offering a delicate bloom to a young man with hair as white as snow. "Take it. It complements your hair."
For a moment, the young man hesitated, then accepted the flower as he gazed at the girl. "What do you need?"
"Can I not offer you a flower just because I wish to?" she replied.
The young man furrowed his brow. Naturally, he was the same child Rosalind had seen earlier. She had chosen to dress as a young boy, her hair cropped short, her hands roughened by the grip of a sword. On the outside, no one would be able to tell that this handsome young man is actually a young woman.
