Roses are red, violet are blue

The morning sun filtered through the wide glass windows of The Petal Whisperer, spilling warmth over the shop's wooden floor. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, daisies, and lilies, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh soil. Lila Prescott stood behind the counter, her hands busy arranging a bouquet of crimson roses, their soft petals brushing against her fingers. She had done this countless times, yet today, the task felt heavier, each flower carrying a weight she couldn't quite name.

James had loved roses. "The deeper the red, the more they feel like passion bottled up," he used to say, his voice full of boyish wonder. Lila could still hear him, could still see the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. But now, his voice lived only in her memory, a ghost haunting her quiet moments.

As she placed the last rose into the arrangement, her fingers faltered. She stared at the bouquet, her chest tightening. Two years had passed since the accident, and yet, time seemed irrelevant. The grief was no softer, no easier to bear. It clung to her like the morning fog outside, refusing to lift.

The bell above the door jingled, breaking the silence. Lila quickly wiped her hands on her apron and composed herself.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carter," she greeted with a practiced smile. The older woman was a regular, her visits as predictable as the sunrise. She walked in, her eyes immediately scanning the rows of flowers.

"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Carter replied, her voice warm. "The daisies look lovely today. You've outdone yourself again."

"Thank you," Lila murmured, retrieving a bouquet wrapped in brown paper. "Your order's ready."

Mrs. Carter lingered, holding the bouquet as if hesitant to leave. Her gaze softened as she looked at Lila. "You know," she began gently, "this shop… it's more than a business. It's a piece of you. James would be so proud."

The words struck Lila like a physical blow. She nodded quickly, forcing another smile, but her throat tightened. "Thank you," she said softly.

After Mrs. Carter left, the shop fell silent again. Lila exhaled shakily, her composure slipping. She turned back to the roses, but the sight of them felt unbearable. With trembling hands, she set the bouquet aside and retreated to the back room.

The small space was cluttered with shelves of tools, ribbons, and vases, but it was also her sanctuary. In the corner stood a battered wooden table, its surface covered in photos and mementos. Lila picked up a framed picture, her thumb brushing over the glass. It was taken the day she and James opened the shop—a day filled with laughter and hope.

"This is it, Lila," he'd said, his arm draped around her shoulders. "A place where love blooms."

Her chest tightened as she stared at his face, frozen in time. She sank into a chair, clutching the photo to her chest. The grief washed over her in waves, fierce and unrelenting. She felt angry—angry at the universe for taking James away, angry at herself for not being able to move on.

"I miss you," she whispered into the stillness, her voice cracking. "I don't know how to do this without you."

For a long time, she sat there, letting the tears come. She didn't fight them anymore.

The afternoon sun was lower in the sky by the time she emerged from the back room. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and returned to the counter. The roses still sat there, their beauty unchanged, as if mocking her grief.

The bell jingled again, and a young couple walked in, their laughter filling the shop like sunlight breaking through a storm. They were holding hands, their smiles wide and unguarded.

"Hi," the woman said brightly. "We're looking for some roses. It's our anniversary."

Lila nodded, masking her emotions with a professional demeanor. "Congratulations," she said, her voice steady. "Let me show you what we have."

As they browsed, Lila watched them from the corner of her eye. They reminded her of herself and James—of a time when she had believed the future was theirs to shape. The man chose a bouquet, handing it to his partner with a look of pure adoration.

"Perfect," the woman said, her eyes shining. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," Lila replied. She wrapped the roses carefully, her movements precise but mechanical.

After they left, the shop grew quiet once more. Lila stood by the counter, staring at the roses they had chosen. Her hands trembled as she picked up one of the leftover stems, twirling it between her fingers.

James had always said that roses were more than just flowers—they were symbols of love, passion, and life. Holding the rose now, Lila wondered if he was trying to tell her something.

She placed the rose in a small vase and set it on the counter. It felt like a tiny act of defiance against the darkness that had enveloped her.

As she locked up the shop that evening, she glanced at the rose one last time.

"Roses are red," she whispered to herself, her voice steady but soft. "And maybe I'm still here."

It wasn't a grand revelation, but it was something—a flicker of hope, like the first bloom of spring after a long, harsh winter.

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