That day in Kazanlak Valley, I almost got arrested as a flower thief. While crouching to photograph a rose, an old gardener materialized from behind a tree and grabbed my wrist: "Girl, you're waking its spies!"
My camera nearly slipped from sweaty palms. Following his gnarled finger—holy cow! Tiny purple dots speckled the crimson Damask rose's petal base, like invisible ink markings.
"These are surveillance devices," he muttered cryptically, "They remember everyone who touches them. When the moon wanes..." His voice trailed off as he vanished into the blossoms.
My cursed curiosity went nuclear.
At Sofia University lab later, biologist Marina nearly choked laughing at my story. "Those 'spies' are mutated nectaries," she showed me microscope images—the purple dots swarmed with fluorescent particles that record temperature changes!
"The real magic's in their DNA." Marina pulled up genetic codes resembling alien script. "17 sets of 'silent genes,' like locked diaries. They only activate under specific vibrational frequencies..."
The old man's "waning moon" warning echoed in my head. Lab AC hummed as goosebumps erupted on my arms.
Reality outdid fantasy.
Those genes require dual triggers—moonlight + moth bites—to secrete rose oxide. Marina said this molecule rejuvenates cells, but catch this—it only releases through insect-inflicted wounds!
Suddenly ancient Persian alchemists' midnight distillations made sense. When we recreated their copper still experiment, star patterns emerged on the vessel—not decorations, but self-assembling cosmic models mirroring Pleiades' exact arrangement!
I sat dazed on a park bench clutching lab reports. Kids asked if I was ill because I kept whispering: "So when we give roses to lovers, we're actually handing over cosmic debris..."
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