Roses.

Born into poverty, you had always known struggle. Then you married a man whose toxicity only deepened your burdens, dragging you into his debts and leaving you suffocated in a life that felt like a series of withered flowers—each dream, each hope, fading away unnoticed. Day after day, you worked to make ends meet: Monday in the flower shop, Tuesday at a café, each job a small, quiet battle for survival. The tears you shed were just another part of the routine, another hidden scar beneath the surface.

Then, there was him. The Rose Man.

Tall, handsome, and rich enough to shop anywhere, yet he chose your small, struggling flower shop. He came not just for the roses, but for you. The other employees said he liked you, that he wanted only to be served by you. But how could that be? You were too old for him, worn out from years of hardship, and tied to a man who had drained you of everything. He was just a boy, surely just playing at romance.

Yet, he didn’t leave. Day after day, he bought roses, only ever asking for you. He found you wherever you worked, as though seeking something from you—something deeper than just a flower. What was it? Was he just another boy drawn to a withered flower, or did he see something in you that you had long forgotten?

No matter how many roses he bought, one question lingered: Who was he, really? And why did he keep coming back?