The LAST LETTER

“THE LAST LETTER”

Every morning for sixty-two years, Daniel placed a single white rose on Lily’s windowsill.

It began the day after their wedding in 1963, when he found her sitting at that window, reading a book, sunlight catching the strands of her auburn hair. “You look like a dream,” he had said, and she laughed, that bright, tinkling laugh that made the world stop for a moment. He picked a rose from the garden and set it beside her. “Every day,” he said, “I’ll remind you.”

And he did. Through job changes, tight winters, and the birth of their twins. Even on days when she was too busy to notice, or too tired to smile, the rose was always there.

Years passed like falling petals. Their home grew quieter. The garden got wilder. When Lily was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Daniel kept bringing the roses. Some mornings, she didn’t recognize him, but she always smiled at the rose.

One cloudy afternoon, Daniel didn’t come. Lily, now wheelchair-bound, noticed.

“Where’s my flower?” she asked the nurse.

The nurse hesitated. “He… he’s resting, sweetheart.”

But the next morning, a white rose appeared again.

And the morning after that.

A week later, Lily received a letter. It was in Daniel’s handwriting.

My dearest Lily,

If you're reading this, I’ve gone to the garden early. I didn’t want to leave you alone, so I arranged for the roses to keep coming. I hope they remind you, even when I’m not there, of how I loved you—then, now, always.

Until we meet again,

—Daniel

Lily clutched the letter to her chest, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of roses.