She's glad the rock people like her flowers! And she likes the music they make with their feet—there's meaning in it, she finds when she stops to listen, and it's beautiful besides.
It's sad when flowers die. But maybe something good can come from it?
She looks at the crushed flowers, bright petals pressed flat to the ground, and thinks. What if there was life there? A different kind of life, a little like the plants and a little like the rock people, something in between—able to move and scurry, like the rock people, but simpler like the plants.
And then there is life, tiny creatures waking and shivering into existence. Shiny carapaces on their backs, the same bright colours as the flower petals, with little scurrying legs underneath.
Some of them burrow under the moss to hide. Others unfold gossamer wings from beneath their shiny-hard shells and take to the air, dancing among the glimmering motes of light and landing on the flowers. They're brand new and hers and she loves them, loves them, loves them.