RHODI'S ROSES

Fairweather skipped down Willow Lane, her uneven pigtails bouncing like springs, eyes wide with wonder at her new surroundings. The quaint houses lining the street morphed in her imagination: a thatched cottage became a gingerbread house, a brick bungalow, a dwarf's underground lair. But it was the house at the end of the lane that truly captivated her - a grand Victorian house, set away from the street, its weathered façade of red brick with black brick diamonds nearly hidden behind a riot of climbing roses and twisting vines. To Fairweather, it wasn't just a house; it was a castle frozen in time, waiting for a brave knight - or a curious little girl - to break its enchantment.

Fairweather's eagerness to explore Willow Lane was fuelled by more than just childish curiosity. At home, the air was thick with the acrid smell of her mother's cigarettes and the oppressive silence that followed her latest "bad day." Fairweather had learned early on that it was better to make herself scarce when Mom retreated to her darkened bedroom, murmuring about needing to "rest her nerves." The magic of the overgrown garden offered an escape from the suffocating worry that permeated every corner of their small apartment.

As twilight painted the sky in hues of lavender and gold, Fairweather crept closer to the iron gates. The flood of flowers whispered secrets on the evening breeze, and she could have sworn she saw faces in the gnarled tree trunks. A flicker of movement in an upstairs window caught her eye - was it a trapped princess or perhaps a friendly ghost? Fairweather's heart raced with possibilities, her mind already weaving tales of magic and mystery that surely dwelled within those vine-covered walls.

Tanwen shuffled to his front window, drawn by an unfamiliar sound - laughter. His rheumy eyes narrowed at the sight of a young girl peering through his gate. "Nuisance," he muttered, reaching for the curtains. But something stayed his hand. The child's wide-eyed wonder stirred a long-dormant memory. For a moment, superimposed over the girl's face, he saw Rhodi as she'd been the day they'd first laid eyes on this old house.

Days passed, and the girl became a fixture at his gate. Tanwen found himself watching for her, grudgingly admiring her persistence. One afternoon, as she reached through the bars to touch a particularly vibrant rose, he surprised himself by calling out, "Careful of the thorns, child." Her startled smile was like sunshine breaking through storm clouds, and Tanwen felt something crack the cobnut shell around his heart.

Tanwen paused at the door. "Rhodri, love, have you seen my gardening shears?" Tanwen called out, his voice echoing through the cluttered rooms. "Ah, never mind, I remember now. You always did say I'd lose my head if it weren't attached." He chuckled softly as he left his door, secateurs in hand. He shuffled up to the girl. "You can have one if you like." He unlatched the gate for her, then patted her head, smoothing some loose hair. "What's your name little miss?"

"Lacy, but my friends call me Princess Fairweather." She curtsied. "Did you know," Fairweather chirped, her fingers gently tracing the veins of a leaf, "that the word 'petal' comes from the Greek 'petalon', meaning 'a thin sheet'?" Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

Tanwen blinked, momentarily taken aback by the torrent of information from such a young mind. "Well, I'll be," he murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "You remind me of... someone who loved words just as much." He clipped the rose.

"A rose for you, Princess, from your new friend Tanwen." He bowed and swished the rose with a flourish, and handed the rose to the girl.

In that moment, Fairweather felt as if she'd stepped through a looking glass. The air seemed to shimmer around Tanwen, and in his eyes she saw reflected not her own face, but that of a beautiful woman with silver-streaked hair and laugh lines etched deeply around her eyes. It was thrilling and unsettling all at once, like standing on the edge of a fairy ring. Fairweather held her breath, afraid that speaking might shatter this strange spell.

"It's useful to cut the roses, so more will bloom—has the unfortunate name of 'dead-heading', you'd be doing us a favour by taking some." Tanwen cut another six roses. "For your mom, I'll get some paper to roll them." He bowed to the girl again. "Rhodi will be happy to share her flowers." He smiled. "Just a tic, fair maiden."

The garden was a feast for the senses. The perfume of blooming jasmine mingled with the earthier scents of rich soil and sun-warmed stone. Bees hummed lazily from flower to flower, their drone punctuated by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Fairweather trailed her fingers along the rough bark of an ancient oak, feeling the life pulsing beneath its weathered exterior. Even the air seemed different here – cooler and somehow more alive than the stagnant atmosphere of her apartment.

Fairweather twirled through Tanwen's overgrown garden, her arms outstretched as if embracing the very air. To her, each rosebush was a slumbering fairy, each gnarled tree a wise old sage. "Princess Rhodri," she called out in a sing-song voice, "your loyal subject awaits an audience!" She curtseyed to a particularly stately, if overgrown topiary, giggling at her own game.

Tanwen watched her from the porch, a ghost of a smile on his weathered face. "Someone's in a playful mood today," he said, ostensibly to Fairweather, but his gaze fixed on a point just beyond her shoulder.

Fairweather nodded solemnly, playing along with what she assumed was an elaborate make-believe. In her mind, she was the brave knight, tasked with entertaining the lonely king until the spell on his queen could be broken.

"Would you like to share some Earl Grey and lemon biscuits?"

The girl squealed.

"Shh," Tanwen pressed a finger to his lips, eyes twinkling with secretive excitement. His tray tilted dangerously downward, splashing tea. "We mustn't disturb Rhodi's afternoon nap." He gestured back to the house. "She's not been well, and fell asleep before she could have hers. She won't mind."

Fairweather tiptoed after Tanwen, her imagination painting vivid pictures of the ethereal "Princess Rhodi" beyond the door. Perhaps she'd be napping on a bed suspended by magic geese, surrounded by butterflies that served as her ladies-in-waiting.

Each piece of overgrown paving became a magical stepping stone, each dust mote a fairy's lantern guiding their way through the garden to a stone bench.

*

As she helped herself to her third biscuit, a ladybird crawled across a rose near Fairweather's ear. She launched into another explanation. "Ladybirds are beetles, you know. They are named after Mary Magdalen on account of them being red and having spots." She giggled.

Tanwen nodded, his eyes misting slightly. "Indeed," he said. "Take care, some bite."

Fairweather pulled her finger back, then blew the ladybird off the rose.

Tanwen's eyes took on a glassy, faraway look. "Rhodi, love," he said softly, reaching out to touch Fairweather's cheek, "you've done something different with your hair."

Fairweather froze, her heart pounding. She'd seen that lost expression on her mother's troubled face, but never quite so intensely. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she should play along or try to bring him back to reality. "Mr Tanwen," she said carefully, "it's me, Fairweather. Remember?"

Tanwen blinked rapidly, confusion clouding his features before recognition slowly dawned. "Of course, of course," he mumbled, withdrawing his hand. "Forgive an old man his fancies." But the incident left Fairweather with a nagging sense of unease that she couldn't quite shake.

Tanwen stood slowly, his knees crackled. "Rhodi wanted me to tidy the roses. You can help if you've got time?"

"I have to go back when the street lights light." She tapped her lips. "Mom is sleeping with Prince Valium today."

"Oh, huh." Tanwen scratched his head. "Well, as long as your mom won't mind."

"Do you have any ogres in your garden?"

"We had a gnome for a while, but he went on an adventure."

"Ooh!"

Tanwen led Fairweather to an unruly rosebush. Fairweather's imagination ran wild as she helped Tanwen. In her mind's eye, the thorny branches became the scaled coils of a fearsome dragon, guarding the entrance to Queen Rhodi's tower.

"We must be very careful," she whispered dramatically to Tanwen. "If we wake the dragon, it might breathe fire and turn all the roses to ash!"

Tanwen chuckled, playing along with a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, but you forget, brave princess," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "Queen Rhodi has gifted us with magical pruning shears. One snip, and the dragon will fall into a deep slumber!"

As they worked, giggling and spinning ever more elaborate tales, Fairweather felt a warm glow of belonging. Here, in this enchanted garden, she wasn't just a lonely girl with a distracted mother – she was a hero on a grand adventure.

"Now, lass," Tanwen said, his gnarled hands demonstrating the proper way to prune a rosebush, "you've got to cut just above a leaf node, see? That's where the new growth will come from."

Fairweather watched intently, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Like surgery for plants," she mused. "Did you know the word 'surgery' comes from the Greek word meaning 'handiwork'?"

Tanwen chuckled, shaking his head in wonder. "I did not, but I'm not surprised you did." His expression softened, a faraway look in his eyes. "Rhodi has the green thumb. I'm just following her instructions, like any dutiful husband."

"Is that why you talk to the plants sometimes?" Fairweather asked innocently. "Are you telling them what Rhodi says to do?"

Tanwen's hands stilled for a moment. "Something like that, lass," he said quietly. "Something like that." Tanwen wiped the sweat from his brow.

Fairweather beamed. "You have a picture book garden."

Tanwen smiled. "Speaking of books, I have something to show you."

*

As the summer sun dipped, casting long shadows across the garden, Fairweather and Tanwen sat on the old stone seat, a book of his keepsakes on his lap. As Tanwen opened the old book, a peculiar scent wafted from its pages - sweet yet somehow unpleasant, like overripe fruit. Fairweather wrinkled her nose but said nothing, too excited about the pictures inside to mention it. Tanwen flipped through the pages, pausing occasionally to adjust the small, pine tree-shaped air freshener he used as a bookmark. 'Rhodi always loved the scent of pine,' he murmured, more to himself than to Fairweather.

"Look at this one," Fairweather pointed excitedly. "It's a fritillary butterfly. Did you know their name comes from the Latin word meaning 'dicebox' because of their chequered pattern?"

Tanwen leaned in, squinting at the delicate, preserved wings. "Is that so? Fascinating." He turned to Fairweather, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "And what can you tell me about this flower here?"

Fairweather's face scrunched. "Don't know about flowers."

"Ah, then, tell me more about butterflies."

As she launched into an explanation about insect vision. Tanwen found himself transported. For a moment, it wasn't a precocious child sitting beside him, but Rhodi, her eyes alight with the same passion for knowledge, the same joy in sharing it. He set the book aside, then busied himself digging manure into a row of rose bushes.

When Fairweather finished, slightly out of breath, Tanwen beamed at her. "You're a marvel, lass," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "A real marvel." Tanwen felt a warmth in his chest he hadn't experienced in years.

"Mr Tanwen, why don't you ever go out? Don't you have friends to visit?"

"You've been watching me for some time, then?" Tanwen's hands stilled, the soil and muck crumbling between his gloved fingers. "Well, lass," he began slowly, "sometimes, when you lose someone special, the world outside can seem... too big, too empty."

Fairweather nodded sagely. "Like a snail without its shell," she mused. "Did you know snails can sleep for up to three years if the weather isn't right for them?"

Tanwen chuckled softly, grateful for the distraction. "Is that so?" He took off his gloves to wipe his brow again.

She wiggled in the seat enough to rattle the stone. Tanwen went pale with a cold sweat, afraid she'd ask to use his toilet.

"I'm eleven today!" She said out of nowhere.

"Eleven?" he whispered. "Born on this day?" The garden seemed to darken, shadows creeping in at the edges of his vision. His sweating became unbearable, his filthy gloves slipping from trembling fingers onto the grass, and his knees lost their strength.

Tanwen's carefully constructed fantasy world crumbled like a sandcastle against the tide of reality. His eyes cleared of their usual fog, sharp with a pain so raw it made Fairweather stand up and back away from the old man.

"Rhodi," he choked out, "My Rhodi died eleven years ago today." The words slipped from his lips, hanging in the air like the toll of a funeral bell, marking the death of not just Rhodi, but of the magical realm Fairweather and Tanwen had built together.

Tanwen's words poured out like a long-dammed river, flowing over Fairweather in a torrent of grief and memory. He spoke of Rhodi - the real Rhodi - of her laugh like summer rain, of the cancer that withered her like frost on a rose.

Fairweather listened, rooted to the spot, as her enchanted castle transformed before her eyes into what it truly was: a mausoleum of memories, preserved in dust and shadows.

Reality smothered the vibrant colours of Fairweather's imagination. The wise old trees were just trees, gnarled and overgrown. The whispering roses were silent, their magic nothing more than the rustle of wind through petals. And Tanwen... Tanwen was just a lonely old man, lost in a castle of his own making. Fairweather felt tears spring to her eyes, mourning the loss of her fantasy world even as she reached out to comfort the grief-stricken man.

"I know just the thing." Fairweather spun, her eyes focused on a pile of decorative white stones. "A memorial to the queen in a far-off land."

*

Sunlight dappled the freshly turned earth as Tanwen and Fairweather worked side by side, their hands dirty but their hearts lighter than they'd been in weeks. Tanwen's movements were slow but purposeful, reviving a small flowerbed to the side of the bench. They collected wild bluebells from around the yard. "Rhodi always loved bluebells," he said, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips as he patted the soil around the delicate flowers.

Fairweather, her face scrunched in concentration, carefully arranged a circle of white stones around a young sycamore that had grown wild at the side of the bed. "For protection," she explained, catching Tanwen's sceptical glance. "And remembrance."

"Ah, it seems our adventure is at an end." Tanwen said.

Fairweather followed his gaze to the flickering streetlight. It wasn't the fairy tale ending she'd once imagined, but as she watched a butterfly alight on one of Rhodi's favourite champagne-coloured roses, Fairweather realised that reality, with all its messy, beautiful complexity, could be just as magical as any story she could invent.

As twilight painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, Tanwen shuffled back into the house, cradling the bouquet of fresh roses originally meant for Fairweather's mother. The familiar lament of floorboards creaking beneath his feet echoed through rooms long neglected.

He approached the mantelpiece where Rhodi's favourite vase sat amidst a sea of dust and memories. The musty air caught in his throat as he carefully lifted the crisp, brittle roses from the lead crystal. Their once-vibrant petals now faded and curled, much like the memories they represented.

With trembling hands, Tanwen placed the refreshed vase beside Rhodi, clearing a patch of pine tree shaped air fresheners. The heady perfume cut through the stagnant air. It was as if life itself had breached the fortress of grief he'd built around himself. Tanwen's gnarled fingers traced Rhodi's hair, tucking a loose strand gently back in place.

"Oh, Rhodi," he said to the corpse of his wife, no louder than the rustle of petals settling. "You would love her." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to her skull in a tender kiss. He slipped a champagne coloured rose into her shrunken reddish-black fingers. "For you, my Queen."

As he straightened, Tanwen's gaze swept across the room. Dust motes danced in the fading light. The clash between the sweet fragrance of new roses and the musty odour of disuse and rot suddenly seemed unbearable.

With a determined set to his jaw, Tanwen hobbled to the kitchen. The screech of long-unused hinges pierced the silence as he opened the cabinet under the sink.

"Well, old girl," he said, a hint of his old humour creeping into his voice, "seems we've let things go a bit, haven't we?"

As night fell, the soft swish of the duster and the lemony tang of cleaner mingled with the scent of roses and artificial pine. Slowly, methodically, Tanwen cleared away the cobwebs of the past, making room for new growth, new memories.

The house, like its owner, was awakening from a long slumber.