Far away from here, there is a rose bush, that grows the most beautiful red, red roses you have ever seen.
People come from all over the world to pluck a single flower and take it home to their beloved. The plucked flowers never fade, nor wilt, nor die.
Tourists, locals and all those in between will swear to you that this is true.
And as all things in this world have a story to go along with it, this is the story of it's beginning.
There once was a temple. A temple on a hill on the outskirts of a town. It had been built to honour the gods of old and had been there as long as any of the town's people could remember.
There were gods of war standing proud with swords and shields, gods of farming with promises of harmony in their eyes and gods of cats and dogs and butterflies.
They lined the temple, stoically watching anyone who entered. Listening to their prayers with their stone ears. One frequent visitor was a woman with a distant faraway look in her eyes.
You could almost imagine the heads of the statues turning as she passed, trying to get a glimpse of the small smile on her lips.
As if walking on clouds she would float by until she reached the statue at the very end of the temple. The God of love and beauty lived up to its name.
Smooth marble, just the right combination of strong angles and soft curves and a face that shone with unparalleled kindness.
If you had seen this statue with your own eyes you would understand how a person could fall in love with it. And that was exactly what had happened.
The woman who seemed to walk through a dream came to visit her beloved every day, leaving small gifts of adoration at the unmoving feet.
Bundles of herbs, wooden carvings and more often than not red, red roses.
The joy that sprung from this woman rippled through the town, and anyone who visited would speak of the people as the warmest and happiest they had ever met.
But tragedy strikes as if blindfolded.
One day an earthquake shook the land. Houses trembled as if shaken by giants, creatures of air and land fled in panic as their homes came tumbling down around them. Nothing could withstand it.
The woman ran to the temple as fast as she could, lifting her skirts as she navigated the terrain. But the tremors had been unforgiving.
The temple was a pile of stone, a ruin of marble and prayers. Tears filled her eyes, masking the sight of spilled carved limbs, and she fell to where the steps had once been.
There is a phenomenon in this world, where it is possible for someone to die of a broken heart.
The tragedy of loss is too much for a person to bear and so, like the snapping strings of a guitar, life leaves the body.
The people of the town came later and saw the devastation and the cold shell of the woman, now resembling a statue of grief.
Hundreds of years have passed since that day. The tragedy is still remembered by the people and the ruined temple still sits on the outskirts. But beauty has a strange way of returning.
At the very place where the woman had passed, a single leafy bush grows from the ground, between cracks of stone. And on it blooms the beautiful red, red roses that any person has ever seen.