When Roses Rot

Hazel slammed the bedroom door behind her, the sharp bang echoing louder than she expected. She slid down against the panel, her breath shaky and uneven. Sobs fluttered at the edge of her lips, but she swallowed them, trying to preserve the last strand of control she had. Behind the door, voices tried to calm her mother's hysterics, but they felt distant—like echoes in a cave she didn't want to be in.

The truth was settling in like cement: her father was gone. And she wasn't ready to accept it she might never accept it.

She stared blankly at the minimalist bedroom, then at the cracked phone screen of the phone which had finally decided to pity her and turn on, her thumb hovering over Baileé's contact. It was pointless. She had tried calling multiple times—no answer. Her best friend might be the only one who could understand this ache, but even that lifeline felt unreachable.

On the little bedside table sat a framed family photo. Her father's smile beamed back at her—wide, warm, alive. Six-year-old Hazel reached for her mother's hairclip in the picture, while Mrs. Allen pressed a kiss onto her daughter's forehead. They looked... complete. Whole. Her father had been the glue, the voice of reason, the light during quarrels. Now he was a memory in a frame and everything she soon remembered about him seemed like a dream.

Hazel clutched the photo and collapsed onto the edge of her bed. A teardrop landed on her father's forehead in the picture. Curling into herself, she gripped the hem of her shirt, soaking it in the flood she could no longer hold back. The grief came in waves—first silent, then violent. She muffled her screams into a pillow, trembling with every breath, struggling with herself.

She needed relief.

Then, the sun crept through peach-colored curtains, casting gold patches on the floor. It was morning. Already?

Her eyelids fluttered open. Her head throbbed. Had she even slept? Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe not at all. Her dream lingered—her father was there, but hollow. She hugged him, but felt nothing. He told her he was gone. That dream… wasn't a dream. It was her mind surrendering to what her heart refused to, yet she refused to believe. She knew that people died, it was possible but that it had happened to her Dad so soon felt unreal.

She turned to her side. The family picture had stayed in her arms all night.

She had hoped holding it would change something—that maybe if she wished hard enough, time would bend and bring him back. But it hadn't. Everything remained the same. Even the second hand on her bedside clock hadn't moved. Reality was merciless.

The muffled wailing from the living room continued. Her mother was still crying, she had stayed up all night.

Work. The café. Wednesday.

She didn't have the strength for it. Not today.

"I'm not going to work," she said aloud, surprising even herself. But the decision had already bloomed in her subconscious hours ago. Reflecting on it for a while, she made her conclusions.

The sunshine nudged her cheek gently. It felt undeserved—like the world shouldn't be allowed to be beautiful today.

Her phone lay next to her, lifeless from the fall yesterday. She picked it up, expecting a blank screen—but to her surprise, it flickered and lit up. She felt a surge of hope as a strange warmth spread through her for the first time in days.

It wasn't the end of everything.

Her thoughts wandered to Mildred—her assistant. The argument. The firing. Hazel had lashed out, grief pouring out in the ugliest way. She hadn't called to apologize. Could she even fix it now?

She dialed.

The first call rang out. No answer.

She tried again.

This time, Mildred picked up.

"Hello?" came the frosty voice.

Hazel inhaled, biting her tongue. "Hey, Millie…"

There was a pause, a brief tension, like Mildred was waiting to launch at her next word, she felt anxious.

"I know. I heard about it," Mildred said flatly. "Your dad, right?"

"Yeah…" Hazel's throat dried. " I-I'm sorry about what happened at the café. I wasn't thinking. I just… lost it."

"You did more than lose it," Mildred said curtly. "You practically fired me, Haz. I was just talking. I didn't even know about your dad! And you—God—you blew up at me."

"I know, I know. You're right. I was wrong." Hazel clenched the phone tightly. "I just… I need you to understand that I didn't mean it. I was spiraling."

Mildred sighed. "I was going to call. To say sorry, to offer my condolences. But you made me feel like garbage. And now… now you call?" Mildred's eyes squinted in disbelief.

"I get it. I do."

Her voice softened. "Please, Millie."

There was a pause again—longer this time.

"Alright," Mildred muttered. "I get it. You're grieving. I lost my granddad a couple of years ago—felt like the world ended. So yeah, I know the feeling. What helped me? Taking care of Snoopy, his dog. It gave me purpose. You should find something like that. Something to—"

"Mildred…" Hazel interrupted gently.

"What?"

"I appreciate the talk. I do. But I don't want advice right now. I just need someone to be there."

That silence again. Then…

"Fine. I'll come over later. Just rest."

The call ended.

Hazel stared at her screen. Her chest ached, but this time, it wasn't from grief—it was from trying to breathe again.

She leaned back into the bed, clutching the photo. For the first time in hours, the house felt a bit quieter and she thought she could think straight.

But just as she closed her eyes again, something tugged at her attention—a sliver of paper jutting out from behind the edge of the framed family photo. Curious, she stepped closer, heart pounding, and gently pulled it free.

It wasn't her imagination.

It was a letter.

Faded, yellowed, and slightly crumpled with time. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell on the handwriting. His handwriting.

At the top, in delicate but familiar strokes, it read:

"I know I should have told you, my butterfly. But I'd rather you read this—whether I'm gone or still alive.

—April 12, 2001."

Nineteen years ago.

Her knees nearly gave way.

My butterfly. That was what he'd always called her—because she was delicate, graceful, and full of color.

Her fingers trembled as she held the fragile note. Why had her dad hidden this? Why behind a photograph? Why now?

And how had she never noticed it until this moment?

A chill danced down her spine.

What secret had he buried for nearly two decades… waiting for her to find it only after he was gone?

As her trembling hands unfolded the letter, nothing could have prepared her for what it said.