Once upon a time, there was a lone sunflower.

The little seed had survived the bitter chill of winter, where others of her kind had been frozen into eternal slumber. As spring arrived she had sprouted into a lonely existence, struggling to set roots into the ground already dense with grass. Among the sharp green blades there was no place for her. There was that, and one other thing that the flower knew for certain – that the sun that shone so radiantly overhead was beautiful.

A small insect took a liking to the growing flower. Rather, he felt pity from a distance. A parasite to the grass was all he was, unwanted and excluded like she. As time went by the sunflower would often shelter him under her leaves, doing her best to keep him safe when the wind and rain brought threat. He may have grown to love her, but the flower saw only the sun. The sun that shone down upon her without fail, showing her with unwavering conviction which way she should turn.

The vicious weed despised the sun. For sun was far above the weed, burning, all-knowing rays discerning exactly what the cruel plant was. From down below the weed could blend in under the guise of a beautiful flower, while her roots strangled all that challenged or rivalled her beneath the surface. The sun was perfect, undefeatable, and the weed was disgusted.

The sun is ugly, the weed always said. The flower didn't understand, but the weed spoke with such honeyed words; how dare she disagree? Don't climb any further towards that sun, the weed had instructed, demanding the flower stay by her and only her side. For a long time, the flower obeyed the weed's every command, as slowly the tendrils of the malicious creature formed an embrace. An embrace of love it was, but of the most twisted kind.

Still, the allure of the sun was too much to ignore, and the coils of the weed suddenly drew tight as if to strangle the poor flower. The sun would not have her, was the weed's resolve, especially if she herself could not. The insect did his best to repay the flower, gnawing furiously at her bonds. But not forever could he fend the weed off, for he was neither courageous nor strong.

It was the burning light cast down by the sun that scorched the angry weed, and the warm soothing glow which comforted the little flower. She could breathe once more, tears in her stem and leaves healing under the sunlight's gentle caress. At times she wanted the struggle to end, but the sun refused to let it, refusing to let her give up and wither away.

The little flower rose higher, guided by the sun, above the harsh grass and the dirty weed. As she bloomed she reached out with her petals, as if to kiss the beams from above. For no matter where she was or what she came to face, the sunflower would always grow towards the sun.