The weeping flowers were weeping their silent tears. But they were particularly mournful today, for one of their own had been cut down, and in the prime of his existence. Mortimer had been in full-bloom, his petals lush and full of dewy life. Even his thorns had been youthful and green, his stem firm and tall, with leaves that glistened in the morning light. And with the click-snap of gardening sheers, it had all been over. The flowers had not even been allowed to mourn their dead, before he’d been taken from them and plunked in a vase of water.