There was a small village nestled in the rolling hills of Provence, France. In the centre of the village stood a humble cottage, its walls covered in ivy and its windows adorned with bright yellow shutters.

The dandelion was not much to look at. It was a small, yellow flower, no more than a few inches tall, growing on a patch of grass by the side of the road. But to those who knew its secret, it was much more than that.