After finishing getting ready for the day, I make my way out of my room and down the long, marble staircase. The maids and butlers tell me good morning as I travel to our long, elegant dining table. I sat down on a chair and looked from one end of the table to the other. Father was reading the morning paper and drinking a cup of coffee, as he always did in the morning. Mother was scribbling words in her notebook, most likely working on a plot for her upcoming story. I cleared my throat, "Good morning." Mother looked up from her notebook and father set down the paper to look at me. "Morning, sweetheart." Mother replied with a small smile. "Good morning, Alice." Father said flatly before raising the newspaper back up to his face again.
A butler walked up and placed a silver platter in front of me. He took off the lid and revealed my favorite breakfast: sunny-side-up eggs, a pile of hash browns, a few strips of bacon, and french toast. He also set down a glass of chocolate milk-- made with only dark chocolate, just how I like it. After tucking my napkin under my collar, I began to eat as quietly as possible. Mother and father aren't very talkative in the mornings. They're not very talkative at all, really, unless excited about something. I've picked that trait up from them. I'm usually rather quiet. Some people say it's "creepy and weird," or "scary." I don't mind it, though.
I chugged down my chocolate milk and hopped off my chair. "I'm headed to the study." I announced. "Be careful in there, Alice." my father warned, his dark eyes staring me down from over his newspaper. "I will." I promised before heading down a long corridor. After a few moments of walking, I turned and walked into the study, closing the door behind me. I walked to father's desk, and knelt down to the floor. I reached my hand underneath the desk and pulled out a notebook. I stood up, notebook in hand, and walked over to the window. There was a seat there in the window. I sat down on the velvety red seat, stretching my legs out, and looking out of the window.
There it was. A very peculiar flower in our garden that I believe I'm the only that's noticed it's presence. No one talks around here much anyways, so it's not like any of us has heard about it...probably. This flower was very special, though it's just a rose. It wasn't red, or pink, nor was it yellow. It was a black rose, with it's tips being a crimson red. It was as if the rose was burned. But I've gone out to the harden to see the rose closer, and it's in fact not burned. That's just how the rose is. It's all natural, somehow! Ever since I discovered this rose, I've been recording everything about it in my notebook. I open the notebook up to the next blank page and pull my pencil out of the spiral. I stare at the rose for a moment, analyzing it carefully from the high position I sat in. I begin jotting down notes, noticing that the rose has hardly changed since my last observations.