A child from the Dock Sector—one of the many lives Iren had indirectly touched—approached him today. Without a word, the boy pressed a small, dried flower into Iren's palm and ran away.
Iren stared at the shriveled petals. He didn't know what to do with it. His hands were made for triggers and blades, not for something so fragile. Asha watched from a distance, a soft, knowing look in her eyes.
Later, as they walked through the quiet corridors of the industrial belt, she broke the silence. "Why are you so quiet with them?"
"I am not quiet. I just have nothing to say."
"Hmph." She kicked a loose pebble. "Don't throw that flower away."
"Why? It's dead."
"Because," she said, stopping to look at him, "someone looked at you and thought you deserved something beautiful. That matters."
Iren didn't throw it away. That night, he placed the dried flower on a small ledge right next to the yellow mark on the wall.
Asha saw it. She didn't say a word, but she smiled—a small, private smile that reached her eyes. That night, for the first time in months, the Doll issued no reports. No analysis. No tactical updates. Just a profound, heavy silence.
The warehouse was still. There was a yellow mark, a damp wall, and a dried flower.
Anchor Created: The Flower (Worthiness of beauty).