She’d always been lucky – the four-leaf clover in a field of plain grass. Dreamlike in her life, she floated past every person like a spritz of perfume, leaving everyone to want more. To everyone around her, she was as beautiful as a rose, but in her eyes? She was a shamrock.

Some would say she was as bright as a red rose, but she’d always see herself as a shamrock. They grew outside her house, and when the world was caving in on her, she’d sit in the field with them, thinking how badly, how badly she’d like to just be a shamrock.

A plain white flower, but beautiful nonetheless – no thorns, no strings attached. Something simple for her to connect to when everyone was always telling her how bright and noticeable she was, how much she reminded them of the roses.

But she would always tell them, “I’d rather be a shamrock,” in attempts to convince herself she’d still be beautiful without all the bells and whistles.