Part 1

The vast late-summer field stretched endlessly as the sky darkened. Winds howled in violent gusts, tearing through space. Rain poured down like whips, lashing the ground with heavy blows.

Amidst the flattened sea of grass, a tiny yellow flower still stood tall. Its delicate petals trembled, yet it refused to bow. Lightning tore across the heavens, casting a fleeting glow upon its fragile silhouette.

Then, in a terrifying instant, a colossal bolt struck. One would think the flower had been burned to ash—but no. It exploded into thousands of glittering fragments. The shards of light spun in a spiral, opening a luminous portal.

As the storm raged, the flower vanished.

Part 2

The flower awoke in another body. Six slender legs, trembling wings—it had become a golden bee.

The world spread wide before its new eyes: endless meadows, vibrant blossoms, fragrances drifting through the breeze. The little bee soared upward, surrendering itself to freedom.

Day after day, it danced above fields of flowers. Yet freedom was never only sunshine.

One noon, as it drank nectar, a shadow descended. A sparrow swooped, beak wide, seeking to devour the hive. Chaos erupted—bees scattered in panic. The golden bee darted desperately, wings shivering. In a desperate move, it stung the bird’s wing. The sparrow screeched, staggering away.

But before relief could bloom, a net swept down. Darkness fell once more.

Part 3

It awoke in a cramped wooden hive. Thousands of bees crowded together, laboring without pause. No blossoms, no sky—only endless cycles of toil.

Some bees rebelled, clawing at the walls, but the guards struck them down. Smoke choked every flicker of resistance. The golden bee tried once to escape through a narrow crack of light, but its wings were torn, body smeared with red nectar.

Days blurred into exhaustion. One night, its body dissolved into golden dust, carried away by a stray breeze that slipped through the hive’s cracks.

Part 4

The dust scattered onto the water, glimmering in the current. From it, a silver fish was born. Cool waves wrapped its body, fins rippling like silk.

It darted joyfully beneath the moonlit river, scales shimmering like stars. At last, it thought, freedom had returned.

But the river was no gentle cradle. A storm broke, floodwaters surged, currents roared. The fish was swept into a dark whirlpool, smashed against rocks, torn from its school.

Barely escaping, it swam into a net. It thrashed in terror, silver light flickering under the lightning sky. At the final moment, the fish burst into brilliance—and disappeared.

Part 5

This time, the light returned it to its first form: a yellow flower. Yet it was no longer the same. Each petal, each delicate vein carried memories—of the bee’s fleeting flight, of the fish’s struggle against the river.

It bloomed in a quiet garden. A child discovered it, gently cupping it in tiny hands. The petals quivered under the sunlight, a soft fragrance drifting upward.

Above, dark clouds gathered. Wind hissed through the treetops.

From inside the house, a mother’s voice called: — “Come inside, child! The storm is coming!”

The child startled, clutching the flower to the chest, and hurried indoors.

The door closed with a thud. Outside, the first storm winds swept across the garden, leaves scattering, raindrops pattering.

In the child’s hands, the yellow flower glowed faintly—awaiting its next rebirth, unknown to all.