They always cherished the time they spent there, under the tumbling vines and between the walls that opened to the summer sky. Soon, all the bright blooms that had scattered themselves around the broken walls began to fade, and wither back within the cracks and crevices of stone. All that remained were the roses, their heads hung limp as their beauty dimmed with the harsh winter winds, but their attachment to their thorny home held them fast, and so it was these last flowers that were the first to be plucked when the lovers returned.
