The Red Rose.
The thick glass protected the rose from our curious hands, and it protected us too, from the harmful air that the nuclear war had left above the surface. Another glass tomb was placed on the rose which had a filtering mechanism, the same kind in each room filtering the air from above, keeping us alive. The spherical glass was the second place where the sunshine was allowed to enter. My grandmother had saved this rose, she kept yelling get the rose, get the rose and I said, “No, nana, there is no time.” She looked at me with such deep despair that I decided to risk it and I ran outside, picked up the lone rose in the pot, and ran back inside, my phone beeped again, after the warning message, instructions had followed. “Get inside the basement and bolt the iron door securely and do not step out, at all costs.” I grabbed my grandmother’s wheelchair, firmly gripping the handles, and wheeled her on the path to the basement my parents had gotten, especially for her. “Ma and pa,” the thought lingered but I knew each office building now had an extensive basement plan too for emergencies.
