The car engine dies with a low, reluctant hum—like it's sighing after a long journey. Everything falls into silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, thick and alive.
My hands stay on the steering wheel, fingers curled around the leather, not ready to let go. I just sit there for a moment. Staring at nothing. The dashboard lights glow faintly, casting soft shadows across the empty passenger seat.
I blink.
My gaze shifts. The passenger seat. My phone rests there—screen black, lifeless. Beside it, the rose. Still fresh.
Its petals are dark red, almost black in the dim light, curled inward like they're sleeping. Its fragrance is faint but present—threading through the air, curling around me, refusing to be ignored.
I take my phone from the seat. Open the car door and step out. The cold night air rushes in, sharp against my skin, waking me up in ways I didn't ask for.
I close the door—
Then stop. My gaze catches on the flower again through the window.
