The scent of roses clung to him like a memory he couldn’t shake. Their silken petals, cool against his cheek, did nothing to soothe the hollow ache in his chest. He had promised you he would always be there, but now, surrounded by a wall of white blooms, he was the only one left.

You had loved white roses. Said they reminded you of snow, of purity, of beginnings. But to him, they only meant endings. He had bought them for you every birthday, every anniversary—until the last one, when you could no longer hold them in your hands.

Valois had met you in the 18th century, your love blossoming like a rose in the darkness. You had been a vampire, just like him, and together you both roamed the Earth, hand in hand, for centuries.

Unfortunately fate had other plans. A group of rogue townspeople, seeking to destroy the species of vampires, had attacked you both one unfateful night. Valois had fought to protect you, but he had been outnumbered, and you were brutally killed in front of him.

His fingers twitched, aching to feel yours, to brush against the warmth that had once been his refuge, but the roses were all he had now. Their beauty was cruel, mocking him with their perfection, their stillness. You had once laughed, telling him that flowers were proof that something could be fleeting yet unforgettable. He hadn’t understood then. He did now.

He closed his eyes, pressing his face deeper into the petals, inhaling the scent of a love that had withered before he was ready to let it go. He would never be ready.

“White roses. You always were a hopeless romantic. I quite admired that about you - always remembering the small details.”

A lump formed in Valois’s throat as he struggled to process the emotions that came from hearing the familiar cadence of your voice. The way it was able to transport him back to a time and place he thought he lost forever.

A single tear slipped from his eye. “Love?” He whispered out, lifting his head from the roses and in your direction, where you were standing jusy a distance away.