The next morning, the change in Daffodil was palpable.
Gone was the girl who had faced the horrors of her life with quiet dignity and small sparks of hope. In her place was a hollow shell, moving through the motions of her day like an automaton, her face drained of any emotion.
The day began as it always did, with a spread of decadent breakfast treats—delicate pastries, fruit arranged in intricate patterns, and a pitcher of cream resting on the table.
Her soulless, mute servants placed each dish with care, but Daffodil hardly acknowledged their presence. She stared blankly at the display, her eyes empty, as if the vibrant colors of the food were dull and meaningless in her current state.
She picked up a fork, hovering it over a particularly ornate pastry, but it never touched her lips. Her hand trembled slightly before she set the fork down, uninterested.
