I was walking along the lake on a quiet afternoon when something small and out of place caught my eye. Near the water’s edge lay a single red rose, its stem wrapped with a carefully folded note. Nothing else disturbed the stillness. The scene felt intentional, almost like a pause placed there on purpose, and without quite deciding to, I stepped closer.
I unfolded the paper slowly. The message was brief and written without flourish. It asked whoever found the rose to throw it into the lake. The writer explained that her late husband’s ashes had been scattered there, but she could no longer reach the shoreline herself. Her wheelchair could not pass the locked gates, and she was leaving that evening. This, she wrote, was her only way to return something of herself to him. Continue reading…
