Reincarnated as a Flower, Fine then I'll bloom my own way
Chapter 67 - 65: Reflections of Snow (Part-1)

Chapter 67: Chapter 65: Reflections of Snow (Part-1)

Aki moved slowly, holding the wolf’s body. Her legs trembled, and she fell again.

"W... Why... my body is weak?... No... I’m weak..."

Then she remembered The voice of a small girl softly calling out—

"Mama..."

Her eyes widened. She gasped—

"H... Huh..."

"Who..." She whispered again

Suddenly she got a flashback of a small girl with green sweater and ponytail black hair her black eyes looking at her while gripping on her leg

Aki’s eyes widened, Then she whispered

"I remember now..."

Suddenly everything went dark then in a small soft voice she whispered

"My real name is...Aanari Akira.."

I remember snow. Not the fluffy kind you see in fairy tales, but the biting, cruel snow that buries everything—cold, ruthless, quiet. I remember standing barefoot on the wooden floor of our worn-out house, toes numb from the winter air seeping through the cracks in the walls. I was twelve, I think. Or maybe thirteen. Time never flowed right in that place. Days blended into nights, nights into nightmares

My nickname is Aki. And if you ask me, I was the most beautiful girl in the world

That’s not pride talking. It’s what I believed. Maybe because it was the only thing I had. My hair was like fallen snow, pure and pale, and my skin even paler, like porcelain. My eyes—icy blue—stood out in the darkness of that tiny room like shards of frozen sky. People used to stare. Kids whispered. Some with envy. Some with cruel delight, like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

And things did go wrong. Always.

My house wasn’t a home. It was a cage built from rusted dreams and broken bottles. My father—if I could still call him that—was a man drowned in liquor and anger. His voice was either a growl or a snarl. And my mother...

My mother was an angel with broken wings. Her face bore the story of a thousand silent screams—scars and bruises that no makeup could hide. But she smiled. For me. She always smiled.

One day, she came home with something wrapped in old cloth. She cradled it like it was made of glass. I sat up from the corner where I was drawing invisible pictures in the dust. She unwrapped it slowly and held it out to me.

A mirror.

"It’s for you, Aki," she whispered, almost as if someone else would hear. "You always look at puddles and glass shards. Now you have your own."

It wasn’t anything grand. A small hand mirror with a silver frame, chipped on one side, but the glass was clear. I could see my face perfectly. My eyes widened.

"It’s beautiful."

"No," she said, brushing my hair aside. "You are."

I spent hours looking into that mirror. Not because I was vain—but because when I looked at myself, I saw hope. I imagined a world where I wasn’t here. A world where I danced, where I laughed, where people loved me not for how I looked, but because I was me.

But hope, like mirrors, is fragile.

I remember that night too well. The cold was deeper than usual. My mother and I had finished eating rice—just rice, always rice—and I was in my room, the door slightly ajar. My father stumbled in, smelling of sour alcohol and fury. The bottle clinked as it hit the floor.

"Where’s the money?!" he barked.

"I used some of it," my mother said gently. Her voice was always gentle, like she thought it could tame the storm. "I bought Aki something."

"Something? You waste money we don’t have on garbage?!"

"It’s not garbage. It’s a mirror. Aki loves looking at herself. She dreams when she does."

"Dreams?!" he roared. "You think dreams will feed us?! You both are useless. Waste. Trash. You wanna use that pretty face, Aki? Go sell it! Go make something out of that damn beauty!"

His voice was like fire. It seared into my mind.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

My mother’s voice was shaking. "Don’t say that about her. Please. She’s just a child."

"A child?! A brat who wastes food and money? You’re both parasites. And that mirror—"

The crash was deafening. I heard the shatter before I heard her cry out. He had punched the mirror, then grabbed her and slammed her face into the shards.

I ran.

I found her on the floor, blood mixing with glass. Her hands tried to shield her face. Her eyes searched for mine.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I gave you a cursed life. If you weren’t my daughter, maybe you’d be happy. Maybe—"

"Stop," I cried, clutching her hand.

"Mama.... please don’t say that....."

"You are my happiness. You. Just you."

That night, I took the biggest shard of the broken mirror and held it to my face. I stared at myself one last time.

"I’ll never look at you again," I whispered. "I swear."

I buried the piece in the garden the next morning. Snow was falling again.

Years passed. But the memory never faded. The reflection of that night is etched in my soul. My father disappeared soon after—no one knows where he went. Some say he died in a ditch. I never cared enough to ask.

My mother... she never fully recovered. Her face healed in scars. Her smile faded. But she kept going—for me. She worked jobs no one else would take, cleaning floors, scrubbing toilets, carrying heavy bags.

And I worked too. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to give her back everything she gave me.

I was sixteen.

By then, the snow no longer felt cold—it felt like home. I had grown used to empty nights and heavy silences. Our house, already broken, was falling apart more each day. Not just the wood and the walls, but the people inside it. My mother was dying. Slowly, painfully.

She had worked so hard, for so long. Her hands, once gentle, had become rough and scarred. Her back was bent, her face thinner than ever. And yet, she never stopped. Until her body stopped for her.

It started with coughing—long, raspy fits. Then came the fevers, the tremors, the blood. The disease wasn’t kind. And the medicine wasn’t cheap. We needed magic—healing magic—but the place we lived in was too poor to afford such things. Our town didn’t even have a proper clinic, let alone someone skilled in advanced spells.

Every time I asked around, people would only pat my shoulder and say the same thing.

"It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay."

But it wasn’t.

It was never okay.

I watched my mother lose hope. I could see it in her eyes—the dimming light, the fear she tried to hide. One day, she was mumbling to herself. I leaned in close, thinking she needed water. But her whisper wasn’t a plea.

Then suddenly i remember something,It was a memory.

"Why don’t you use that beauty... go sell your body..."

My father’s voice. His curse. Still haunting her even in pain.

That night, I sat by the open window, looking at the town lights in the distance.

I didn’t plan it. But I found myself walking. Through alleys, past silence and whispers, until I reached the place I’d only heard rumors about—the red light district.

It smelled like smoke, perfume, and regret. Women stood by the corners, their faces painted with smiles, their eyes void of light. I was trembling, but I kept walking. For her. For the medicine. For one more day with my mother.

That’s when he saw me.

He looked like he didn’t belong there—a man with posture like royalty, dressed in silver and dark blue. His hair was black as night, and his eyes glowed with something I hadn’t seen in a long time—honesty.

He froze when he saw me. I saw his breath hitch. And then his guards surrounded him.

"Sir," one said, his voice sharp. "Let her be. She’s just another woman who works here. Just another sex slave."

The man’s eyes narrowed. A storm brewed within them.

He kicked the guard aside. Then the others. One by one, without hesitation. I gasped, too stunned to move.

He stepped closer, not with menace, but with concern.

"Is it true?" he asked softly. "Do you work here?"

I shook my head. Tears burst from my eyes like a flood.

And I told him everything. About my mother. About the disease. About the town with no help. About my desperation. About the memory that haunted me.

He listened. Truly listened.

When I finished, I expected him to pity me. But he didn’t. He placed a hand on my shoulder and said the words I never thought I’d hear.

"Don’t worry. I’ll help you."

I stared at him in disbelief. Who was he? Why would he care?

But the days passed, and he returned. Again and again. He brought food, medicine, warmth. And hope. He stayed with me. Talked with me and my mother.

But it was too late.

The disease had taken too much. One night, the healer he brought shook his head. I knew what that meant. I ran to her room, sobbing. He followed quietly.

My mother was barely conscious. Her breathing shallow. Her eyes fluttered open when she saw me.

"Aki... is that you?"

I nodded. I held her hand. She looked to the man beside me.

"Young Man Who... who actually are you...? and why are you helping us so much"

He knelt beside her, took her hand with both of his, and answered with strength.

"My name is Zexon Falter. Son of a Knight in the capital."

Her eyes widened, just a little. Then he turned to me. His hands were shaking.

"I know this isn’t the right time, but... please. Let me take your daughter. I promise I’ll protect her. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll make her happy. Always."

There was silence. I looked at him in disbelief. Then, slowly, a smile spread on her cracked lips.

"Then... I can die in peace."

And she did.

With a smile.

The snow fell again that night. And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel so cold.

I stand in the balcony looking at the snowfall holding his hand on my hand.

I was the most beautiful girl in the world. And for once, someone saw me as more than that.

He saw me.

And he saved me.

I was happy....

Until...