“Painting the roses red, we’re painting the roses red.” Keith sang, columed breath streaming away from him as if eager to be free. His voice echoed hauntingly as it ricocheted off the marble and glass of the empty hall. The Empress didn’t really appove of singing but she rarely came down to view her prizes. In reality the Hall of the Rose was a mausoleum dedicated to the Empress’ favorite flower and the old gardener, a fitting addition.

Keith grimaced in familiar pain as he spritzed the rose infront of him with the enhancing spray. He rubbed the spot where the mister’s tube entered his arm. Today was more draining than usual.

The rose greedily absorbed the enyme-enhanced fluid causing the greens to grow greener and the red of the bud to become electrifying.

Hands cramping into claws, Keith dropped to the cold tile. Today was the day he had finally given too much. Unable to keep the cold away, his final thought was to wonder which son would follow in his footsteps. Someone would have to keep the roses red.