I never thought I'd be the kind of person who Googles "wall art decor" at three in the morning, yet here I was, hunched over my laptop like a conspiracy theorist, obsessing over what to hang above a bed. My sister Amy had recently gifted me this ceramic flower – a dainty pink thing that reminded me of a ranunculus, if ranunculi were made by someone who'd only ever seen flowers in a children's book.The piece came with a keyhole mount on the back, which I initially mistook for some sort of manufacturing defect. "It's wall-mounted," Amy had explained, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. "You hang it. On the wall. Like abstract artwork, but less pretentious."I'd spent forty-five minutes trying to locate the perfect spot, holding the ceramic flower against various walls like a detective searching for bloodstains with a UV light. The thing about wall-mounted ceramics is that they possess a certain permanence – one wrong move and you're looking at a hole in your wall that'll cost you your security deposit. The flower watched me with its glazed petals, judging my indecision. Sometimes I swear it smirks.