Sofía walked briskly, as always. High heels, a designer bag hanging from her wrist, and a coffee in the other hand. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she didn’t care. Lately, her life had been running on comfortable inertia: fashion, social media, parties, music. Everything seemed designed to be seen, to be shared. She was beautiful, and she knew it. But in the last few months, an uncomfortable feeling had been growing inside her, like a murmur she couldn’t silence.
The whole world applauded her, but something inside her felt empty.
That day, she decided to take a detour through a solitary park, with ancient trees that seemed to whisper stories of the past. That’s when she saw her.
Sitting on a stone bench, an old woman was twirling a withered rose between her fingers. Her hands were wrinkled, yet there was something serene, something unbreakable in her posture. Sofía couldn’t help but stop.
—“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”— the old woman said without looking away from the flower.
Sofía nodded, though in reality, the rose looked like it was about to fall apart.
—“It was cut days ago, yet its fragrance still lingers,”— the old woman continued. —“It no longer has yesterday’s freshness, but it still gives off its essence.”
Sofía frowned.
—“And what will happen when it no longer smells?”
The old woman looked at her with clear eyes, so deep that Sofía felt a strange vertigo.
—“It will turn to dust. Like all things that remain only on the surface.”
Sofía shivered.
—“I don’t understand…”
The old woman smiled tenderly, but her gaze was firm.
—“Today, beauty has become a disguise, a deception. We’ve been convinced that to be beautiful is to attract attention, but they never told us that the body is just a wrapping. We were trained to show ourselves, but not to be. We were made to believe that we are valuable for what we reveal, but never for what we conceal.”
Sofía felt a lump in her throat.
—“And what’s wrong with beauty?”— she asked, with a more defensive tone than she intended.
—“Nothing,”— the old woman replied. —“The problem is when beauty is emptied of meaning. When you use it as bait instead of as a gift. When a dress does not enhance dignity but destroys it. When a woman ceases to be a mystery and becomes a display case.”
Sofía felt the ground become unsteady beneath her feet.
—“Women today are like plastic roses,”— the old woman continued. —“They look perfect, but they have no fragrance. They don’t die, but they don’t live either. They don’t hurt, but they don’t love. They have traded fire for artifice, essence for image.”
—“But… isn’t it important to feel good about oneself?”— Sofía insisted, looking for a way to defend herself.
The old woman tilted her head gently.
—“Yes, but tell me, is feeling good the same as being free?”
Sofía opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say.
—“Today, they tell you that you are free if you can do whatever you want with your body,”— the old woman continued. —“But true freedom is not following desires that others have planted in you. It is choosing what is good, even if no one else does. It is knowing that you are more than a dress, more than a like, more than a well-shaped body.”
—“But if I dress nicely, what harm is there in that?”— Sofía insisted.
The old woman smiled gently.
—“Nothing, my child. God Himself clothes the lilies of the field in beauty. But notice: their beauty is not forced, nor fake, nor does it provoke disorderly desires in others. They grow with dignity, with grace. True beauty attracts the soul, not just the eyes. Have you ever wondered if what you wear leads someone to look beyond your body?”
Sofía lowered her gaze, unsettled.
—“But… fashion changes,”— she whispered, more to herself than to the old woman.
—“And truth does not,”— the old woman replied firmly. —“Do you know why the world insists so much on undressing women? Because nakedness is not just physical, it is spiritual. The more the body is displayed, the less the soul is valued. The more it is shown, the less it is protected. And the less it is protected, the easier it is for people to treat it as a disposable object.”
The air grew heavy.
—“We have forgotten that the body is a temple,”— the old woman continued. —“And one does not enter a temple in just any manner, nor does one allow just anyone to profane it. A woman who dresses with dignity respects herself, and those who respect themselves teach others to respect them.”
Sofía felt the urge to argue, to justify fashion, to talk about freedom. But a part of her knew she had no answer.
—“And what does it mean to burn?”— she finally asked, her voice weaker than she expected.
—“To burn means not to fear the truth. It means that your beauty is not a lure but a reflection of what you are inside. That instead of attracting glances, you illuminate souls. That you become a woman who inspires others to look upward, not downward.”
Sofía looked at her reflection on her phone’s black screen. Her tight clothes, her rehearsed pose, her perfectly outlined lips. For the first time in years, she felt that none of it truly represented her.
The old woman extended the withered rose. Sofía took it in her hands. Gently, she brought the flower to her nose and inhaled its scent. It still smelled of something.
—“Roses are not born to decorate shop windows,”— the old woman whispered. —“They are born to be a garden, to be a fragrance, to be fire.”
Sofía lifted her gaze, but the old woman was gone.
Only the rose remained.
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