Nothing is concrete, everything is sun. You’re thrown a vague shape and without a way to distinguish what’s what, for all you know, it’s the bloody remnant of war or a poison apple from a hag. But they’ll tell you of course. They’ll tell you exactly what you’re looking at as it surrounds you while fear wrenches at your throat. They’ll tell you and hope you don’t get close enough to smell it for what it really is, a rose waiting to be swallowed whole. You can't remember if they said whether it has thorns or not.