I held the rose a little tighter, feeling the weight of what I was about to do. This wasn’t just a flower—it was love, grief, and longing, all wrapped in delicate petals.
I walked to the water’s edge, took a deep breath, and let it go.
And as I watched it drift away, I realized something I hadn’t expected: this act of kindness would change me forever.
The next morning, as I sipped my coffee on my porch overlooking the lake, I couldn’t stop thinking about that note. Who was she? What was her story? The questions swirled in my mind like the ripples from where the rose had landed. It felt unfinished, like there was more to uncover.
Later that day, I decided to visit the local café near the park entrance. Maybe someone there knew who had left the rose. As I ordered my usual latte, I noticed an older woman sitting alone at a corner table. She wore a soft cardigan over her shoulders and stared out the window toward the lake. There was something about her demeanor—quiet sadness mixed with quiet strength—that caught my attention.
I hesitated for a moment before approaching her. “Excuse me,” I said gently, “do you happen to know anyone who might’ve left a rose by the lake recently?”
Her eyes widened slightly, then softened. She gestured for me to sit down. “You must be the one who found it,” she said after a pause. Her voice carried a warmth that made me feel instantly at ease. “Thank you.”
Yes, I threw it into the water for her,” I replied. “But… if you don’t mind me asking, how did you know?”
She smiled faintly. “Because I’m Evelyn, and she’s my daughter-in-law, Clara.”
Evelyn explained everything. Her son, Daniel, had passed away two years ago after a sudden illness. He and Clara had been inseparable since college. When he died, they scattered his ashes in the lake because it was their favorite spot—they used to come here every weekend, even in winter, bundled up with thermoses of hot chocolate. But now, Clara rarely visited anymore—not because she didn’t want to, but because life had become complicated.
“She’s been struggling,” Evelyn continued. “After Daniel passed, she threw herself into work. She doesn’t talk much these days, not even to me. But last week, she called me crying. She wanted to leave something special for him but couldn’t make it to the lake herself.”
That’s when Evelyn suggested leaving the rose with a note, hoping someone kind-hearted would find it. And apparently, fate—or maybe Daniel himself—had led me to it.
Over the next few weeks, I kept bumping into Evelyn at the café or during my walks by the lake. We started chatting regularly, and she told me more about Clara. How she was fiercely independent but also deeply lonely. How she still wore Daniel’s old leather jacket sometimes, even though it was far too big for her. How she refused help from anyone, including Evelyn, because she thought she needed to handle everything on her own.
One afternoon, as we sat together watching the sun dip below the horizon, Evelyn turned to me. “Do you think you could meet her?” she asked softly. “Clara, I mean. She needs someone outside our family circle. Someone neutral, yet understanding.”
