Achievement of a dream is never gentle. It asks for sacrifices, it demands battles we didn’t always expect to fight. The flowers, seen as symbols of softness and beauty, wear faces that are alert, faces that understand something irreversible is happening. They are no longer passive ornaments in a garden; they are witnesses to the moment where desire meets cost. A bee hovers at the edge, the spider waits in its web, two silent observers in a world where growth is always weighed against control. The garden, so often romanticized as a place of harmony, is exposed here as a landscape of power. Who gets to flourish? Who decides what is cut down? In the end, it is us. We are both the dreamers and the wielders of the shears. Every achievement comes with a price. Sometimes it’s visible, like a cut stem. Sometimes it’s quiet, like a flower watching itself being chosen.