She was reading in silence when she heard a knock at the door. Curious to see who had come to see her, she stood up and answered the door. The man at the door smiled warmly at her. She smiled back. His blonde hair was in his eyes as it always was, his brown eyes shined as he looked at her. He held out a bouquet of brilliant red roses to her. She blushed and thanked him. He took her hand and looked warmly into her eyes.
"I vow to love you until the last rose dies," he said to her.
Then he turned and walked away. She lingered in the doorway savoring the memory of his presence. Her eyes filled with tears as she filled the vase with water for the flowers. She knew roses never lasted more than two weeks.
After a week or two, the roses started to die one by one, until there was only one left. A year passed and yet, that single rose remained unchanged. She looked at the rose every day curiously. She wouldn't dare touch it for fear of it turning to ash before her. Many more years passed this way and the rose lived. One night she was reading in silence when she heard a knock at the door. She opened it quietly and tears cascaded down her face as she look into the familiar face of the boy. His warm eyes still shined and his blonde hair was still hung in front of them. He embraced her tightly.
"A few years ago I told you I would love you until the last rose died," he wispered "one red rose is still alive."
The girl could do nothing but nod. His embrace was warm and his breathing steady. She could hear his heart beating. He looked into her eyes and kissed her gently as to not disturb the silence further.
They were married within a year. They had two beautiful children together. One day the woman, no longer a girl, looked at the vase sitting on the window sill. It still held the red rose. She went to her husband and asked,
"The rose that you gave me all those years ago still hasn't died, how can that be?"
He looked at her and smiled, "That night I gave you a dozen roses, 11 living and one made of silk. Eleven roses have died just as they must, but the silk rose is still alive, as is my love for you. The last rose will remain for all of eternity and I will love you through all of it."
Often times I find myself wondering why a rose is a symbol of love, if a rose always dies. It was this very thought that inspired me to write this short story. A story of true love that, like the last rose, will never die. So, what did you think of the story? Message me to give me some feedback on it.
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