Roses are red, violet are blue

Chapter 2: Shadows of Memory

The dim light of dusk seeped into Lila's apartment above The Petal Whisperer, casting long, muted shadows across the walls. She sat at the edge of her bed, her gaze fixed on the wooden chest tucked into the corner of the room. The chest had been there for two years, untouched and silent, like a monument to a life that had been ripped away too soon.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her tea, the warmth of the cup doing little to calm her nerves. Tonight was no different from many others, yet it felt heavier, as if the air itself was charged with the weight of memories she had tried so hard to suppress. She let out a shaky breath, her eyes drifting back to the chest.

It had been James's.

The thought of opening it felt like stepping into a storm. For months after his death, she couldn't bear to look at it, let alone touch it. But now, something inside her whispered that it was time. Time to face the fragments of the life they had planned, time to let herself remember—even if it hurt.

Lila stood and walked toward the chest, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. She knelt slowly, her knees pressing against the cool surface, and ran her fingers over the smooth, worn wood. Her heart pounded as she opened the lid, the faint scent of cedar mixed with a trace of James's cologne wafting out.

The first thing her fingers found was his baseball cap, the one he always wore on their Sunday hikes. She lifted it carefully, her hands reverent, and pressed it to her chest. The memories came flooding back—the sound of James's laughter echoing through the trails, the way he always reached for her hand to pull her up steep paths.

"Come on, Lila," he'd say, his grin infectious. "The view's worth it, I promise."

Tears stung her eyes as she set the cap aside and reached for the next item: a stack of photographs tied together with twine. She untied the knot, her fingers trembling, and began flipping through them. Each picture was a snapshot of their life together—sunlit afternoons in the park, lazy mornings in their tiny first apartment, and the grand opening of the flower shop.

Her breath caught when she reached a particular photo. It was taken during a camping trip, just days before he proposed. They were sitting by the fire, their faces illuminated by its golden glow. James had his arm around her, his smile wide and unguarded.

Her lips quivered as she traced his face with her fingertip. "You always looked so full of life," she whispered, her voice breaking. "How could you be gone?"

At the bottom of the chest was a small, leather-bound journal. She hadn't known it existed until the night after his funeral when she found it among his things. She hadn't been ready to read it then, and even now, the sight of it sent a jolt of fear and longing through her.

Slowly, she opened the journal. On the first page, in his familiar slanted handwriting, were the words:

"For Lila, my muse, my partner, my everything. This journal is for us—for the life we're building together."

Her hands shook as she turned the pages, tears slipping down her cheeks. James had written about their dreams, their plans for the future. He'd described how they would expand the shop, buy a house with a garden, and maybe even adopt a dog.

One entry caught her attention, written in bold letters:

"Lila is my light. She makes me believe in the beauty of every single day. I want to give her a life as vibrant and full as she is."

Lila clutched the journal to her chest, her heart breaking all over again. She didn't feel vibrant. She didn't feel full of life. She felt hollow, like a shadow of the person James had loved.

The sound of rain tapping against the window pulled her back to the present. She stood, still holding the journal, and moved to sit by the window. Outside, the world was quiet, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the wet pavement.

She flipped to a blank page in the journal and hesitated before picking up a pen. Her hand hovered over the page, the weight of her emotions threatening to crush her. Finally, she began to write:

"James,

It's been two years, but it still feels like yesterday. I don't know how to do this—how to keep going without you. The shop is still here, just like we dreamed, but it feels empty. I feel empty.

People say time heals, but they don't tell you how to handle the pieces of your heart that are missing. I miss your laugh, your warmth, the way you saw beauty in everything. I miss us.

I'm trying, James. I'm trying to find a way to live again, but some days, it feels impossible. I wish you were here to tell me it'll be okay."

The tears came freely now, blurring her vision as she closed the journal and hugged it tightly. She felt raw, vulnerable, but there was also a strange sense of release, as if putting her emotions into words had lightened the burden, even if just a little.

The next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening under the soft light of dawn. Lila carried the journal down to the shop, placing it on the counter beside a vase of fresh roses. The shop opened as usual, and customers trickled in throughout the day, each interaction a small distraction from the ache in her chest.

By mid-afternoon, the bell above the door jingled, and a man stepped inside. He was tall, with dark hair and a quiet presence that filled the room. His eyes scanned the shop before landing on Lila.

"Hi," he said, his voice soft but steady. "Do you have violets?"

The question caught her off guard. "Not at the moment," she replied, brushing her hands on her apron. "But I can order some for you if you'd like."

His lips curved into a faint smile. "That would be great. Thank you."

There was something about him—something unspoken yet familiar. As he left, Lila found herself wondering who he was and why he wanted violets.

That night, as she closed the shop, she looked at the journal sitting on the counter. For the first time in two years, she felt a flicker of something she couldn't quite name. Curiosity? Hope?

Whatever it was, it was enough to remind her that life could still hold unexpected moments of connection.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn't entirely alone in her journey.

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