Why are there so many flowers when I wake up?

blackness...

It was the first thing he perceived as consciousness began to seep into his mind, an absolute blackness, dense and borderless.

There was no above or below, just a silent void that enveloped everything.

Then, little by little, the light came.

He awoke as if sleep still clung to his eyelashes, his head heavy and his body floating between two worlds, a feeling of weightlessness slowly fading away.

For an interminable instant, he didn't know if he was really breathing or if he was still trapped inside that dreamlike place where things happen without weight and without consequences.

He tried to move his fingers, feeling a distant tingling. He blinked once, twice, fighting against the heaviness of his eyelids, and the light came through his eyes with a white, milky, warm softness that did not hurt, but welcomed.

Then, in the midst of amazement and stillness, a rational thought tried to break through the haze of his sleepy mind.

—Am I in a hospital?

He tried to remember how he had gotten there.

The memory came fragmented, like broken glass whose pieces didn't quite fit together.

The last thing he remembered clearly was something completely mundane: he was going to the store to shop. Nothing special, just a routine outing for some things that were needed at home.

He remembered crossing the street, the light weight of his wallet in his pocket, the gray skies of an ordinary afternoon.

And then...

Lights.

Bright, blinding lights, coming suddenly from the side. The roar of an engine approaching too fast, the belated instinct to turn one's head, to raise one's hands in a useless gesture of protection.

It had all happened in a split second that felt eternal and fleeting at the same time. He remembered the white and yellow flash of the headlights, the sensation of the whole world bearing down on him, and then....

Nothing.

Just darkness.

The first thing he noticed when he finished waking up was not the light, but the touch.

He was not floating or lying on the floor. His body rested on an immense and exquisitely comfortable bed, a nest of fresh silk sheets and fluffy comforters that seemed to embrace him, erasing any trace of physical pain. It was a comfort so absolute that it was almost unreal, as if he were lying on a woven cloud.

As he looked up from the softness of the pillows, his eyes swept over the place.

The room was a spectacle of whites, purples and blues.

The walls were of pristine white marble, polished to a shine, but the coldness of the stone was tinged by the light streaming in through large lattice-covered windows.

These intricate, geometric structures filtered the sun, creating patterns of light and shadow on the floor, but they were not gilded or dark wood; they were a chalky white that contrasted beautifully with the lapis lazuli and indigo tiles that decorated the low baseboards.

The ceiling curved into a majestic dome, painted a pale, ethereal blue, supported by white columns whose capitals were not bare.

And the room was alive.

There were purple roses everywhere.

They were not simple floral arrangements; it was a botanical invasion of overwhelming beauty. Thorny but elegant vines, laden with deep, velvety violet roses, spiraled up the white columns. Large blue ceramic pots held bushes of lighter lilac roses, and on the small tables, the floor, and even on the folds of his bed, loose petals rested like confetti from a silent celebration.

Semi-transparent chiffon curtains in gradients of blue and purple hung from the bed canopy and bows, billowing softly in a breeze that smelled intensely of sweet roses and clean mountain air.

From his bed, surrounded by silk and petals, the place did not look like a hospital or a prison. It looked like a forgotten palace or the bedroom of a god dreaming in cold colors.

The beauty of the place was such that, for a moment, the fear of accident and death was suspended, drowned in that sea of white, blue and purple roses.

"Sure."

He whispered to himself, searching for logic amidst the perfume.

"This has to be a dream.

An elaborate one, mind you. A dream in 4K, with unlimited budget and award-worthy art direction, but a dream nonetheless.

Surely, at any moment the alarm clock would go off or he would feel the familiar weight of his cat crushing his bladder to demand breakfast.

But the seconds ticked by and the awakening did not come. The breeze stirring the curtains felt eerily real, and the detail of the petals on the floor was too crisp for a mere nighttime fantasy.

"A lucid dream."

He concluded with the relief of one who has read a couple of articles on the internet and thinks he has it figured out.

"That must be it. I've got a handle on this floral cheesiness. Great."

To prove his theory and tease his own mind, he decided to resort to the classic cliché: pinch an arm.

He looked down, searching for his own arm, ready to feel the small pain that would break the illusion.

However, his eyes did not reach the arm. They stopped before. Much earlier.

Beneath the fabric of a white silk nightgown, so thin it was almost transparent, two unmistakable shapes rose.

Two smooth, round, defiantly present mounds.

He stood frozen, his hand half-raised, like a statue of bewilderment.

He did a quick mental review:

—Name, Daniel. Anatomy remembered, male. Current status-well, those are definitely breasts.

He couldn't stop an absurd thought from crossing his mind in the midst of shock, a treacherous, philosophical little voice:

—Wow. If my subconscious has decided to project this... could it be that these are my ideal tastes? Or does my brain simply have a very twisted sense of humor?

With a resigned sigh, he decided to stick with the original plan. Deliberately ignoring the unfamiliar topography of his chest-a titanic effort of selective denial-he brought his fingers to his forearm.

"Just wake up, Daniel."

He murmured, closing her eyes tightly.

He pinched. And it wasn't a gentle pinch. It was one of those vindictive, nail-biting, eager pinches designed to wrench anyone from the deepest slumber.

"Ow!"

The pain was sharp, immediate and rudely real. He rubbed his reddened skin, waiting for the scenery to dissolve into the darkness of her room.

But the roses were still there. The marble was still there. And the pain was still there.

"Okay..."

His breathing quickened.

"If it hurts, I'm not dreaming. And if I'm not dreaming, and the last thing I saw was a truck with delusions of grandeur..."

The word fell on him with the weight of a ton of spiritual bricks: reincarnation.

He had died. Caput. Finite. And somehow, the universe had given him a second chance.

"Okay, okay. Calm down. Reincarnate is all the rage. I can handle it."

He said to himself, trying to rationalize the impossible.

Then, he looked down again. His gaze inevitably collided with the two mounds protruding from under the silk.

Horror, cold and sudden, hit him harder than the truck.

"Wait a minute..."

His voice came out sharper than he remembered.

"If I've been reincarnated..."

He patted his chest with trembling hands. They were real. Soft, heavy, and definitely his.

"I'm a woman!"

Panic gave him sudden energy. He needed to confirm the extent of the "catastrophe."

His eyes swept the room frantically until stopping at a corner. There, a full-length mirror with polished silver frame awaited him like a silent judge.

Stumbling over the sheets, he ran toward it.

As he faced his reflection, the scream he was preparing died in his throat.

What he saw left him fascinated, momentarily overcoming the existential horror.

It was not him. There was no trace of Daniel.

In the mirror was a girl of petite stature, delicate as a porcelain doll. Strands of pale blonde hair fell modestly over her shoulders. But what really took his breath away were the eyes.

They were large, a deep, vibrant violet color, glowing with a light of their own so beautiful that they looked like a flower being born in spring.

Before he could finish processing his new reality-or admire himself a little more, because, honestly, he was cute-softknocks on the door interrupted her session of existential narcissism.

"Your Excellency?"

A female voice, melodious and respectful, came from the hallway.

"Did I wake you, may I come in?"

Daniel tensed like a cornered cat.

—Excellence?

He looked around for anyone else, but there was only him, the mirror and his magical girl reflection.

"Uh..."

His voice failed him, coming out a little shaky.

"Y-yes... come in."

The door opened softly and Daniel had to make a conscious effort not to drop his jaw to the floor.

If he was a pretty girl now, the woman who had just walked in played in another league. She was almost achingly beautiful, with pale, flawless skin and a cascade of white hair that fell down her back like liquid silver. Her eyes were a deep blue, bright and serene.

But the most striking thing was not her face, but what was on her head. From between his hair grew two horns that were neither bone nor ivory, but resembled tree branches, dark and elegant, extending upward like a natural crown.

She dressed with a solemnity that screamed "status," draped in a white robe and deep blue stole. The fabric was traversed with intricate patterns in gold thread that formed flowers so detailed I almost expected them to release pollen.

In her hands she carried a silver tray with several covered dishes, from which delicious aromas escaped.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Your Excellency."

Said the woman with a slight nod, completely ignoring Daniel's dumbfounded face.

"But I have brought you breakfast."

Daniel, trying to regain the composure he never had, decided the best strategy was to feign absolute dignity. Or at least, the version of dignity he'd seen in period movies.

He nodded his head slowly, with rehearsed gravity, and gestured majestically toward the nightstand-or what he hoped was a nightstand and not a floral sacrificial altar-that stood beside his bed.

"Leave it there!"

he ordered, trying to make his voice sound not like that of a teenager in the middle of a rooster, but firm and regal.

The woman blinked, perhaps surprised by the brevity, but obeyed without complaint, depositing the tray with fluid grace.

"As you command."

Good. Step one: accepted as authority. Step two: find out who the hell she was.

She couldn't just ask "What's my name?" because that would imply that: A) He'd hit his head too hard, or B) He was possessed. And neither option seemed safe in front of a woman with tree horns.

He had to be cunning. Subtle.

He cleared his throat, striking a pensive pose, as if he were pondering the mysteries of the universe rather than his own identity.

"Tell me something..."

he began, lengthening the vowels to buy time.

"I was thinking... about the ceremony today."

He had no idea if there was a ceremony, but in the life of royalty there is always some ceremony, isn't there?

The woman looked at him with mild confusion, cocking her head to one side.

"The ceremony, Your Grace?"

"Yes, exactly. The protocol."

Daniel waved his hand dismissively, as if it were a trivial matter.

"Sometimes I feel the titles become.... repetitive. Lacking punch."

He leaned forward slightly, trying to put on a fastidious marketing director's face.

"If you had to advertise me right now.... how would you do it? I want to hear the loudness. To... assess the impact."

The woman with the horns looked at him for a second, a silence that seemed to Daniel to last three geological eras. For a moment he feared she was going to call in the magic shrinks. But then, her expression softened into a sympathetic smile.

"Of course."

She said, standing up formally and clearing her soft voice.

"I would announce her as befits her greatness: Her Imperial Highness, great ancestor of the nation, Anthea Rosengard, Imperial Princess and Supreme Ruler of the Principality of Rosengard."

Daniel kept his expression stony on the outside, nodding as if assessing the quality of an aged wine.

"Mmm. Yes. Sounds... suitable."

he murmured.

Inside, however, his mind was running in circles and screaming.

—Anthea Rosengard? Imperial Princess? Ruler? I don't even know how to rule my savings account!

"Is it to your liking, Your Highness?"

The woman asked, snapping him out of his inner spiral of panic.

"Enough for now!"

sentenced the one now known as Anthea, leaning back on the pillows with a dramatic sigh that he hoped would sneak in as existential fatigue.

"You may... retire. I need to meditate on... my domain."

"As you wish."

The woman gave a deep bow and left the room, closing the door softly.

As soon as the click of the latch sounded, the mask of "His Excellency" collapsed. Daniel dropped backwards, covering his face with his hands. Or rather, with his new, delicate, aristocratic hands.

"Anthea Rosengard..."

He whispered against his palms.

"My name is Anthea. I am a princess. And I have a principality."

She pulled her fingers away to stare at the blue-painted ceiling.

"I hope the principality comes with an instruction manual."