The Moonlight Covenant of Rose Valley

On the outskirts of Kashan in Iran lies the Rose Valley, where thirteen-year-old Laila loved to sneak into the flower fields before dawn. While dewdrops still clung to the pink-and-white petals of Damask roses, her fingertips had already brushed the core of the first bloom kissed by the morning light.​

"Laila's here to steal roses again?" The laughter of Uncle Hassan, the gardener, startled the hoopoe birds in the flower clusters. The old man's wrinkled hand caressed the fully bloomed bud. "These roses have to wait for the dew of the full moon night to brew the most fragrant rose syrup."​

Laila stood on tiptoe and looked at the distant snow-capped mountains, whose snow-white peaks loomed faintly in the morning mist. Legend has it that the Snow Mountain Goddess flows into the valley along with the melted snow every spring, infusing her spirit into the first blooming rose. Since her mother took to her bed due to illness, Laila had always dreamed of finding such a magical flower.​

That full moon night, Laila quietly sneaked into the rose field with an earthen jar. The silver moonlight flowed over the sea of flowers, and each petal glowed with a pearlescent luster. Suddenly, a gentle breeze blew, and a pale pink halo rose from the deepest part of the flower cluster. A bud, fuller than all other roses, was slowly blooming.​

Just as she was about to reach out, a transparent figure emerged in the halo — a silver-haired girl draped in a gauze dress woven from dewdrops, her fingertips gently touching the bud: "I am the Rose Spirit. Why do you come here late at night?"

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Laila's tears fell onto the petals: "My mother can't sleep because of coughing. I heard that rose syrup brewed with snowmelt can cure her." The spirit let out a soft sigh, waved her hand to summon the dew condensed from moonlight, and said: "Mix this with the morning dew for distillation. Remember to keep kindness in your heart."​

When the first ray of sunlight shone on the valley, a sweet fragrance wafted from Laila's earthen jar. On the third night after her mother drank the rose syrup, a long-lost smile appeared on her face. Uncle Hassan looked at the rose petals on the drying rack and suddenly said to Laila: "Your grandmother used to pick roses here. She said that kind people will be remembered by the fragrance of flowers."​

Nowadays, Laila's daughter always follows her to pick roses in the early morning. When she holds the petals in her small hands, she can see the flickering light in the dewdrops — that's the Rose Spirit smiling, and it's also the never-fading tenderness on the Iranian plateau.​