It's a red poppy in full bloom, somehow unbruised and uncrushed despite being buried amidst the broken pieces.

This, too, triggers a memory:

You see a young woman, wreathed in flames, weeping beside the giant, broken body of her lover. Her grief is something older and more piercing than you can understand, the immortal mourning for a mortal. Regret is the weight of millenia, born down upon her shoulders, an emptiness where love once existed and has been taken away.