He suddenly woke up from a dreamless slumber, thinking he'd heard the rose call his name.
Shuddering he got up only for the bitter reality to be confirmed once again: the rose was gone. She had died in her sleep, killed by the chill of an unexpectedly cruel winter.
Everything had lost its significance for the Little Prince ever since, even the passing of time. His life dragged itself wearily like a pale reflection, waiting for the end to come.
He sat down with his knees huddled against his chest, looking at the stars. They smiled no more; they only returned his gaze coldly.
His mind went back to the rose: her scarlet petals, the thorns she was so proud of, her ingenuous and touching vanity.
There wasn't another flower like her in all the universe. Because she was his rose. He had tamed her, so he was responsible.
But he hadn't been able to prevent the cold from stealing her away from him forever.