It's the smile and it's tragic. It's also deeply captivating and morose. It bends into a coil and slithers down her face and wraps around her ears, suffocating, recuperating.
The fundamental idea of her neverending conquest for her insufferable affection of roses speaks highly of the personality behind the enigma. She was born with thorns in her pockets, a sort of defense mechanism prepared for her by Nature in the will that the world is highly judgmental of other beings' own way of living. She has somehow accumulated enough resources to deny allegations of sorcery, not that it matters to her. In the end, it was all part of a widely-construed, mischievous plan. This plan entails many things that certain matters of taboo dare not explain. It is a self-explanatory accusation of man's infinite ambition for the grandeur obscurely hidden underneath the veil of hypocrisy. The roses she bore serve as powerful tools for her own ends. The moment she manages to sell one is a moment she spreads the contagion, airborne and guided by the flower's own mysterious biology. At any point in day that she is able to sell ten of these, ten men will discover for themselves firsthand the anomaly she possesses, leaving not a single trace of evidence afterwards. The disease merely masks the on-going suffering. The chronic suffering itself is persistent. The more we see the numbers of these fauna dwindling down, the more she goes to work her magic. It is then you witness that tragic, broken smile, her lower lip tucked beneath his upper teeth, her brows form a radiant separation, all calm, tender and dream-like in sequences.
The mystery begins to unravel one way or the other, as people grow more anxious and curious, as more news of travesty emerge from the papers. It takes one to step up to change the balance. A man, it just has to be. For a broken smile can only be redeemed by one with the courage and skillset to quell the woman's murderous desire for love.