They say the world's most beautiful rose blooms in a red desert, and anyone who finds it will find happiness.
People longing for happiness cross the red desert in endless succession, but in the end, they all turn back in sorrow.
They say the desert was dyed red by the blood of those pricked by the rose. Those who never cross it can only keep searching for their own happiness in their fantasies.
A short story, updated irregularly. I'll do my best not to abandon it. I haven't written anything in this genre for years, so I'm a little rusty.
This is a rewrite of an old story, with new protagonists and added details. I guarantee anyone who might have read the old version is an old-timer by now, fufufufu~
Theme: Mistakes are the mother of endings; letting go is the beginning of freedom.
