Story:

It grew from the ashes, not in spite of the fire - but because of it. Charred each cradled its roots. The bloom knew loss, knew silence, knew surrender. But still - it rose. Petals unfurled life forgiveness. Colored returned like memory. The lotus didn’t just survive. It returned transformed.

Spell:

When all feels wilted, worn and frayed, call the bloom from where it lay. Beneath the mud, the light still sleeps - a seed of self the shadow keeps. By breath of dusk and morning dew, I rise again, remade and true. No past shall bind, no fear shall stay - I bloom anew, in my own way.