There once was a girl named Ira, who loved nature and somehow, it felt like nature loved her back. She found solace in its silence, its melody, and the simple yet symbolic language it spoke. The sound of rustling leaves, the ray of the warm sun, the smell of muddy earth after a heavy rain all wrapped her in a gentle realization that the seen world often lacked.
Her closest companion since childhood was a boy named Marc, who also admired nature, but for an entirely different perspective. To him, nature was a gallery of colors and wonders. He marveled at its beauty at flowers in bloom, perfect sunsets, butterflies that shimmered in the light, and the beautiful rainbow after the rain. To him, beauty was everything. And in beauty, he found the only meaning.
One simple afternoon, Marc was walking as he approached Ira with a soft smile.
"Want to take a walk through the Garden of Beauty?" he asked. "Perfect timing, there are many beautiful flowers there because it's spring season now" he added so that way Ira couldn't say no.
Ira, who had no plans, returned his smile. "I've got nothing to do anyway, so sure, I'll join you."
The garden was just as its name implied, a beauty filled with every kind of flower, each more vibrant and fragrant than the last. The air is filled with the smell of petals and dreams. The bees danced from blossom to blossom, and a soft breeze carried the songs of rustling leaves.
As they strolled along the cobblestone path, Marc's eyes lit up.
"Look at this," he said, pointing to a bush of roses. The roses were like none he ever saw. It has rich scarlet color, petals perfectly curled, glowing as if kissed by magic. It's not an exaggeration to say that this is the most perfect rose in the world. Entranced by its look, the boy leaned forward, carefully plucked the rose, and twirled it in his fingertip.
"This, is it" he whispered, "This is what beauty should be." He said it like the rose he saw was truly matchless and one of a kind
But Ira's attention had wandered elsewhere. She had paused beneath a lonely tree, her eyes fixed not on flowers, but on something quieter: a single leaf, clinging gently to a branch above. It was slightly curled at the edge, kissed by sunlight, moving like dancing ever so slightly in the wind.
She didn't say a word. She just looked at it.
Marc turned and laughed lightly when he noticed.
"What are you staring at?" he teased. "HAHAHA! There are so many gorgeous flowers if you look around, and you're fixated on... that? Just a plain old leaf?"
Ira didn't respond right away. Still gazing at the leaf, it was as though she and the leaf were having a silent conversation only they could understand. Then, in a soft voice, almost a whisper, she replied
"Anyone can love a rose. But it takes something deeper to love a leaf.
It's ordinary to love what's beautiful…
But it's beautiful to love what's ordinary."
A hush fell over them, as if the garden was holding its breath.
Not wanting to feel embarrassed, the boy tried to laugh it off.
"Oh, I get it now, madam philosopher," he said. "Let me get it for you then, so you don't have to keep straining your neck. You can see it close up."
He stepped forward, reaching for the leaf.
"Stop! Don't touch it!" Ira shouted suddenly. Her voice echoed more sharply than she intended to be, and Marc froze, startled. He turned to her, eyes puzzled.
"Why are you shouting? What's wrong?"
She took a breath, calming herself, then looked at him with gentle seriousness.
"Have you ever considered why I didn't take it myself?" she asked. "It's simple. Because it's so rare, so uniquely beautiful in its own quiet way... I'd rather admire it from a distance while it lives, than take it and watch it wither away. Not everything lovely needs to be owned."
Marc stood still. He looked at the leaf, then at the rose in his hand. For the first time, the petals didn't feel as enchanting as they used to be, the color gradually fading and the petals slowly withering.
Without another word, he sat down beside her at the base of the tree. They didn't speak, and they didn't need to. In that stillness, they watched the leaf together alive, unpicked, and free.
At that moment, Marc began to understand what she meant.
Beauty wasn't just about what caught the eye.
Sometimes, the most beautiful things were the ones you let be.
After a long silence, he spoke, his voice was thoughtful.
"But… I don't think I need to change my way of thinking," he said, eyes on the sky.
"I just need to improve it."
Ira turned to him, a bit puzzled. "What do you mean?"
He smiled faintly. "I just need to cherish beauty… so it doesn't wither. That's what I need to do."
Ira smiled, surprised and impressed by the depth in her once simpleton friend.
"Then I'll go now," he said, standing. "Thank you for your time."
Still holding the rose, its petals beginning to wilt, he ran home. As soon as he arrived, he found a vase, filled it with water, and gently placed the flower inside.
Slowly, the fading rose began to lift. Its colors brightened again, subtly but surely.
Marc smiled, then looked up at the sky.
Sometimes, loving something… meant letting it live.