Original artwork description:

"The Teapot and Roses on a White Table" A white table. Dazzlingly white, like an untouched sheet of paper, like silence before a confession. The thorns of withering roses still cling to the air, as if trying to hold onto what can no longer be held.
Some petals retain their velvety resilience, while others have curled inward like scorched letters. They lie scattered across the table in chaos, yet arranged by some unseen order—like a map of the starry sky.
The old teapot does not merely stand nearby—it observes. It watches as the roses slowly become shadows of themselves. It remembers boiling water for tea once served with laughter, when no one noticed evening falling beyond the window. Now, it is merely a witness. The keeper of this quiet fading, this alchemy of beauty into memory.
Sunlight drifts across the table like an invisible hand turning pages. First, it illuminates the roses—and for a moment, they seem as they once were, almost alive. Then it glides over the petals, and they glow anew in shades of pink, as if whispering: "We're still here, we still belong to this world."
And you understand: these are not petals, but moments that can never be reclaimed. And the sun? It simply goes on shining. For its task is to illuminate—not to grieve.

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