The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 171

Time flowed like the waters of Oslo—unhurried, unbothered—and an entire year slipped by.

Annelise Sargent had been in Norway for exactly twelve months.

The small nightlight on her nightstand, the one that used to stay on every single night, had gathered a thin layer of dust on its shade.

She hadn't turned it on in a very long time.

That lesson she thought would take a lifetime to master—learning to sleep in the dark—had somehow, quietly, been completed on an unnamed summer night.

Over the course of this year, she had accomplished a lot.

Her Norwegian was fluent enough to banter seamlessly with the locals, even if she occasionally messed up the grammar and earned a good-natured laugh from Sophia.

Daisy Flower had made quite a name for itself in Grünerløkka, becoming a weekly must-visit spot for many.

Her Instagram account had grown from zero to ten thousand followers.

Every day, strangers from all over the world left comments in different languages under her photos, saying, "Thank you for your flowers. They healed my day."

She had also received that life-changing invitation from Paris.

But over this year, she had lost some things, too.

Like that final, lingering illusion attached to the name Hackett Lehman—an illusion so faint she hadn't even realized it was there.

During Clarissa Sherwood's transoceanic phone call, dripping with attempts to farm sympathy and extort money, that very last shred of fantasy—along with all the love and hate of her past—was completely, ruthlessly eradicated. Not even ashes remained.

She also lost the desperate desire to be "loved."

She discovered that a person really could live a beautiful life entirely on their own.

When your days are filled with the tangible, microscopic details of work, with the blooming and withering of plants, and with the fresh air rushing against your face every morning, you simply don't have the spare time or energy to wait around for someone else's salvation or pity.

Of the five deep, bone-exposing whip scars on her back, she had lost three of them as well.

Thanks to a year of a balanced lifestyle and specialized medical treatments, three of the shallower scars had mostly faded, leaving behind nothing more than faint, pinkish marks on her radiant complexion.

But the remaining two—the two lashes Lizzie had delivered with all her strength—had damaged the dermis.

The doctor said those two scars would remain on her body forever, becoming a permanent part of her life.

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