𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐸 𝐿𝐼𝐾𝐸 𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐸𝑁𝐷𝑆 - 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑎 𝑜𝑛𝑒

𝒯𝑒𝓃

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sunlight filtered through the open curtains, casting warm rays into Amalia's room as she stirred from her slumber. However, instead of feeling refreshed by the morning light, she was overcome with a heaviness that settled deep within her bones. Dread washed over her like a wave, suffocating her with its weight.

The realization hit her hard – she couldn't bear to be in this house, not without her brother by her side. Every corner, every room, seemed to echo with his absence, a painful reminder of the void he had left behind.

As she grappled with her emotions, Amalia knew she couldn't stay here lying in bed any longer. Her mother was expecting her in the rose garden soon. With a heavy heart, she climbed out of bed and took a quick shower, the warm water failing to wash away the heaviness that clung to her.

Dressing in respectable clothing, though she knew her mother would find some fault with it, Amalia made her way downstairs, her steps heavy with apprehension. Before heading to the rose garden, she made a quick detour to the kitchen, hoping to find some solace in a fresh fruit smoothie that sat waiting for her on the counter.

Taking a few sips, she tried to savor the taste, but her mother's critical words echoed in her head, reminding her of her perceived flaws. The smoothie suddenly felt heavy in her hand, and with a heavy sigh, Amalia poured the rest down the sink, her hunger still gnawing at her stomach.

Slipping on her shoes by the back door, Amalia stepped outside into the cold German air, the chill nipping at her exposed skin. With each step towards the rose garden, she braced herself for whatever criticism her mother had in store for her, knowing that no matter what she did, it would never be enough to please her.

Camille Schröder was a woman of formidable presence, with a regal air that commanded attention wherever she went. Her perfectly arranged hair and immaculate attire spoke of her refined tastes and high standards. Yet beneath her polished exterior lay a steely determination and an unwavering devotion to upholding the Schröder family legacy.

With piercing eyes that missed nothing, Camille was known for her sharp tongue and no-nonsense demeanor. She held herself with a grace that belied her inner strength.

Behind closed doors, Camille Schröder remained the same if not worse as she appeared in public – poised, elegant, and unwavering in her expectations. Amalia had grown up under the weight of her mother's high standards and strict rules, a burden that seemed to follow her even now, despite her success and independence.

As she observed her mother's movements in the rose garden, Amalia couldn't help but feel the familiar sense of being under scrutiny. Camille moved with a grace and poise that seemed to belong to another era, her every action measured and deliberate even within the confines of their home.

The rose garden was like her mother's domain, each delicate bloom a reflection of her meticulously cultivated image. Just as her mother pruned and shaped the roses to perfection, so too did she mold Amalia according to her own standards. Every cut of the shears was deliberate, every thorn carefully avoided, leaving behind only the most flawless blossoms to adorn the garden. Each clipped stem represented a piece of Amalia's autonomy, sacrificed on the altar of her mother's ambition.

In the garden, there was no room for imperfection, no space for the wildness of unchecked desires. Just as the roses were forced into submission, Amalia's spirit crushed beneath the weight of relentless standards. Camille meticulously shaped her daughter's life, and Amalia carried the marks of her mother's influence.

And yet, amidst the meticulously arranged rows of roses, there lurked a darkness, a reminder of the price paid for perfection. Each thorn bore witness to the pain inflicted in the pursuit of an unattainable ideal, a reminder that beauty often came at a cost too steep to bear. One prick of a thorn and you were bound to bleed, but for Amalia, the sting of the thorns had become a familiar sensation, their sharpness dulled by years of exposure. She had learned to navigate the thorns that threatened to swallow her whole, no longer flinching at their touch.