In the depths of my heart, where thoughts flow like underground rivers

In the depths of my heart, where thoughts flow like underground rivers, a rosebud, dried and pressed between the dusty pages of time, awakens from its old slumber, like a dream that remembers its own story. It does not bloom like flowers opening their petals in the dawn of spring, but like something once lost, yet not forgotten, recalling the moment of its life. The edges, once fragile, testimonies of time that turned them to dust, soften now, as if time were a river flowing backward, and my longing were the spring from the mountains of memories, refreshing every forgotten corner. I open the book cautiously, preparing to meet the solemn silence of the past, but, to my surprise, in the quiet of those pages, the rose breathes, quivers. Perhaps it never truly died, perhaps deep in my soul, hope remained alive, like a small flame sheltered from the winds of doubt. Perhaps some parts of us hide in the quietest and darkest corners, waiting just for the right warmth, the right light, to be reborn from the ashes. And maybe, just maybe, this time, I will let it truly bloom in my open palms, without hiding it again in the mute shadows of the past, allowing it to fulfill itself under the gentle gaze of the present, as a testament to the fact that some loves and hopes never truly die.