Poppies.
A tiny sun against the frozen white moon. It dipped its heads low, large petals whirling auric gold and fading to funeral black. So beautiful in contrast to her grisly captors, the festering walls of wood and rock imprisoning her home. Poppies had never bloomed in the Hidden Village before, not since Impaz was but a child. She could remember nuzzling them as if they were pets, playthings, companions. A smile curled her wrinkled lips as she dared a glance outside her window. And just like that, a gust of wind smelling of sand and rot whisked by and tore the poppy from its stem. A hand came to rest on her shoulder. Ilia gave her a sad smile, a mere curl of the lips, but it was a smile all the same.
No flower was more beautiful than a smile.