A delicate taste

Arabella Madrigal sat quietly in the tub, the warmth of fresh milk soaking into her skin. Her grandmother hummed softly as she poured lavender oil into the water, the scent filling the room. Arabella had asked about this strange ritual countless times, but the answers were always vague.

"Take care of your skin, Ara," her grandmother said, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, but there was a certain weight to her words. "It's going to bloom as beautiful as the crimson red roses..."

Arabella looked up, her dark eyes curious. "Why do you always say that, Grandmama? What's so special about crimson roses?"

Her grandmother paused, her fingers gently brushing Arabella's damp hair. "Roses are a symbol of beauty, strength... and danger," she replied, her tone wistful. "But you'll understand when the time comes."

Arabella frowned. She hated cryptic answers. "Grandmama, that's not fair. You can't keep saying things like that without explaining."

Her grandmother simply smiled, standing up and drying her hands. "The world has its secrets, my dear. And sometimes, we're not ready for the answers."

The next day, Arabella entered her classroom, the chatter of students filling the air. As she made her way to her seat, something on her desk caught her attention-a single crimson red rose, lying atop her notebook.

She stared at it, her brows knitting together. Who would leave this here? Picking up the rose, she inspected it carefully. Its petals were soft and flawless, but there was no note, no explanation.

"Hey, Arabella." Her friend Clara plopped into the seat beside her. "What's that?"

Arabella held up the rose. "I don't know. It was on my desk when I got here."

Clara's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Ooooh, secret admirer?"

"Doubt it," Arabella said, tucking the rose into her bag. "Probably someone's idea of a joke."

Before Clara could press further, the professor entered, silencing the room with his commanding presence. The lecture began with the usual discussion of myths and legends, but Arabella found herself tuning out until a particular topic caught her attention.

"Now, let's turn to one of the oldest and most fascinating myths-vampires," the professor said, pacing at the front of the room.

Arabella perked up, her pen tapping against her notebook. Vampires? That was unusual for this class.

"Vampires are said to be immortal beings who feed on human blood to survive. The origins of the myth are murky, but some believe they stem from real individuals whose lives were exaggerated into legends," the professor continued.

A student raised his hand. "Professor, vampires aren't real. They're just stories."

The professor chuckled. "Perhaps. But many myths hold a grain of truth. Who's to say what's real and what isn't?"

Arabella rolled her eyes slightly. She didn't believe in vampires either, but there was something in the professor's voice that made her uneasy.

After class, Arabella lingered behind to help the professor organize books in the lecture hall. It was a routine she'd fallen into over the semester, and she enjoyed the quiet moments after the bustle of the day.

"Thank you for your help, Arabella," the professor said as she handed him a stack of books.

"Of course, Professor," she replied with a polite smile.