The stage was softly lit, a warm glow casting shadows across the wooden floor. In the silence, an old woman slowly stepped into the light. Hunched by the weight of time, wrapped in a dark cloak that dragged behind her, she held a single red flower—the only splash of color in the entire muted scene.
Her eyes were gentle, but deep, like a storm buried beneath still waters. She said nothing. Only paused at the center of the stage and lifted the flower high, as if offering it to something far greater than the crowd watching.
The audience shifted in their seats. Whispers rippled through the dark. The judges exchanged amused glances. But then—the air changed.
The lights deepened to crimson, casting the stage in a blood-like hue. A chill crept through the room. And the woman… began to change.
She trembled. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders. Black, gnarled branches erupted from her arms, stretching outward like claws. Her hands turned to bark, her fingers into twigs. Her face twisted, lengthened, hardened—until it resembled the ancient bark of a tree burned by time and rage.
