I reached out, heart already full as I inhaled the rich scent. For a second—one glorious second—I had that velvety softness against my skin. Then the white petals shrivelled and blackened. The shrub’s leaves curled and withered. The branches dried and snapped under their own weight, and where moments earlier had stood a beautiful plant, now lay a mouldering mound scented sickly sweet with decay. I reached out like I could somehow pull the pieces back together. But there was nothing. And my touch couldn’t fix, only kill. Death. That was my gift.
