Liquid flowers are the most delicate form of flora, believed by many to not even exist. They congeal from seeds cast into small bodies of water, then bubble to the surface as unstable jets of color and fragrance. Each spherical petal instantly bursts into vapor upon contact with the atmosphere, preventing these frail beings from surviving more than a few seconds in the wild.

Human beings have never been fond of such ephemerality, however, and the bottle in your hands is a testament to this. It appears to have once been an apothecary jar, but the previous owner replaced its lid with a complex vacuum-sealing mechanism. It has two primary intake tubes: one to allow the injection of water, and another for seeds. This allows it to serve as something between an aquarium and a garden, preventing the death of any liquid flowers within.

The body of the bottle contains just over a liter of well-preserved molten roses, which, according to the label, have remained somewhat stable for several decades now. As you admire its contents, whorls of cloudy carnelian press against the glass, interspersed with curlicues of darkness. There appears to be no clear water left inside, only a shifting murk of scarlet ooze.

Several deep scars can be seen along the inner surface of the container. Upon closer observation, there are what appear to be thorns throughout the fluid, following a repetitive, elliptical current. It seems that the roses inside have grown restless, and are working together to claw their way out.