He was old. In his hand sat a glowing blue rose. The light was soft. A whispered illumination. He was introverted – a luminary in solitude. A guide in hush. The rose, a paradox, danced between destiny and luck. Quiet, durable, shaped by the beat of Kairos. Midnight petals glowed, aging hands wrapped, frail yet unyielding. Each throb was a soothing mantra. Echoing stories of wisdom woven through years, yet felt more than told. A simple inaudible murmur of life’s orchestra. Nothing hurried about him, or the rose. They were steady, radiant. An introspective quiet graced them. A luminary introvert and his peculiar glowing rose.