The bee, a solitary worker, hummed a quiet song as she discovered a bloom unlike any she'd seen before. Its petals were a vibrant, impossible shade of lavender, dusted with gold pollen. She settled deep within, drinking its nectar, a warmth spreading through her tiny body.
A hand reached for the flower, clumsy and careless. It wasn't malice, just a thoughtless grab for something pretty. The bee, startled, felt the tremor of the approaching fingers. Instinct took over. She drove her stinger home, a sharp, burning sting against the fleshy pad of a thumb.
The hand recoiled with a yelp, crushing the flower’s stem in its grip. The lavender head drooped, petals bruising to purple and then, slowly, crumbling to dust. The bee, weakened by the sting, felt her own wings grow heavy. She circled once, a dizzying spiral, before falling onto the broken stem, her legs twitching. The sweetness of the nectar, once so life-giving, now tasted like ash.
The person looked at the crushed bloom, then at the tiny, still body of the bee. A moment of quiet regret flickered across their face, then was gone. The bee did not feel pain, only a fading warmth as the last bloom died with her.