Roses Are Red

He stops.

He stands, almost intimidated, before the open window of the bedroom. A chill breeze breaks the silence and like a claw, it penetrates the room, reaching for his face and scratching it. His cheeks begin to grow numb, red as blood. The curtains have been thrust aside to reveal the ominous night skies.

His hands hover for a moment, over the windowsill, not wanting to touch it as the last thing he had touched was the hand of his deceased young wife. She had been buried yesterday afternoon, less than 24 hours after she had passed.

A sudden powerful gust of wind threatens to throw him off balance and, instinctively, his hands grab the windowsill. The wind dies down and his eyes peer up at the night sky. The black canvas is peppered with stars, scattered about haphazardly as if one had accidentally spilled them.

He smiles, a small nostalgic smile. He remembers.

He remembers the stars, the grass, the smiles, the childlike eagerness. He recalls a night, only a few months ago, when she had only been two months pregnant. He remembers shaking his head with a chuckle as she begged him to lay down on the grass and stargaze with her. The beauty of the natural world is meant to be admired, she had been fond of saying. He enjoyed it more than he had let on. It had reminded him of when he had been a young child and would watch the stars outside in his backyard, using the telescope his father had purchased for him.

His smile falters a bit as he remembers that his wife and future child are both gone. The wind begins to howl again but this time, he pulls away from the windowsill. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes.

He opens them.

His eyes land on the mirror which stands a few feet away, facing him. He stares at his reflection. He doesn’t look only twenty-five years old. Beneath his once shining eyes are dark rims, telling the story of the weeks of sleepless nights he had spent nursing his ill wife. Absentmindedly, he runs his rough fingers through his thick brown hair, noting the few grey strands which have sprouted and threaten to take over.

Then, he stops. He frowns, uncertainly. Something seems off. He peers closely at the mirror. His reflection peers right back at him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices it. A rose tucked into the corner of the mirror. Had that always been there? No. Puzzled, he reaches for the rose. Its red petals are as delicate as the skin of a baby, and the relative freshness of the flower indicates that it could not have been living behind the mirror for too long. He runs a gentle thumb over the petals, their softness an odd contrast with his rough fingers.

Suddenly, he notices something else tucked behind the mirror, tucked in the area where he had found the rose. A folded up piece of paper. His eyebrows knit together and, sadness temporarily forgotten in bewilderment, he reaches for the note. He unfolds it, and begins to read.

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           He stands in front of the two doors which had been built into the basement wall.

He recalls one afternoon, three years ago. They had only been married for a few weeks.

           “So, uh, what exactly are you building?” he asked, hands on his hips as they stood side by side, watching her father hammer one last nail into the wall. The father had installed two doors and he, the husband, had no clue what was behind either. At the question, the father looked up and smiled at his daughter. She, in return, turned to her husband and grinned.

 “Two doors.”

“I know that,” he chuckled, “I mean what’s behind them?”

           She gave her husband a teasing pat on the shoulder and said with a wink, “You’ll find out one day.”

Somehow, he had a feeling that he was finding out sooner than she had expected.

He peers at the two doors. Both are simple and ordinary-looking but his eyes spy another rose, this one twirled around the doorknob of the door on the right. He glances down at the note in his hand.

I have a feeling that you didn’t notice the rose missing from the vase on the bedside table. She was right, he hadn’t until she had mentioned it. I have placed it there today, on the 24^th. The 24^th was two days ago. You’re sleeping right now, poor thing. You look so tired. You’ve stayed up with me all these nights. I don’t think I’ll be around much longer, though. My hands ache unbearably as I write this so I will be fast. Open the door in the basement.

The letter ends with a brief but affectionate declaration of love. Only when he glances up from the letter does he realize that he’s biting his lip. His eyes, he notices, are tear-bedimmed. For a moment he stands there in silence, treasuring what must have been his wife's final written words.

With an effort, he pulls himself together and stands upright. He peers at the two doors. His eyes are drawn to the rose on the doorknob. He places his hand in his pocket and retrieves the two keys, also found behind the mirror. One for each door, he assumes.

Decision made, he thrusts a key into the doorknob with the rose. To his astonishment, the door pushes back to reveal a small room. So this is what her father had built. Curiously, he steps inside the room, having to stoop a little bit. It’s rather small and empty but there is a table in the centre of the room. On it, there are two items. Both appear to be folded up pieces of paper.

Almost cautiously, he approaches the table and two items. In the darkness, he is unable to make out what they are but they feel like paper. He retrieves the items and leaves the room, squinting as he is greeted by light again. As he glances down at the objects in his hands, he realizes that one is in fact a folded up map.

A map…he murmurs, scratching his beard in thought. He quickly unfolds the item. The paper appears to be stained with age, a bold letter X marked in one area. He doesn’t recognize the location. Baffled, he places the map down on the floor and opens up the folded piece of paper in his other hand. This one is a note.

You’ve got a thing for roses, haven’t you? I knew you would open this door. I’m leaving behind a gift, a very special gift that I hope you will love. It’s something I want you to be reminded of. No hardship last forever. I want you to remember that, love. If you are reading this, it’s because I have passed away before you. He feels a gnawing pain in his chest. He slowly clenches and unclenches his fist then reads on. There is beauty in this world, I also want to remind you of that. There is beauty at your every turn, you just need to look. Please remember that. I’ve marked a forest on the map with a letter X. You’ll find more clues there. Love you. Have fun!

He could hear her teasing voice in his head and he chuckles sadly.

“What is this, a scavenger hunt?” he whispers softly to the paper. Silence. He imagines her grinning at him in response. His eyes land on the map which he had accidentally knocked to the floor. Retrieving it, he stares at the forest marked with a letter X. It’s nighttime but he doesn’t care. He goes upstairs to grab his shoes.

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Some fear the nighttime and indeed, there are things to fear when night falls. But as he makes the drive to the forest in the still night, he is comforted by the beauty of the stars above. His car hums softly, as if humming a child to sleep. Except for one other car, the streets are bear. The driver of the other car, a middle aged man, gives him a friendly wave as he drives by. He returns the gesture.

           The forest, to his surprise, is only a twenty-minute drive from their home. How had he never seen it before? Then again, he had no reason to take this route. His workplace and all the stores were in the other direction. He had no reason to come here. How had she known about this forest, though? He glances up at the stars which offer no response.

           A thick clustering of trees pulls into view and he suddenly wonders where he is going to park. Then, his eyes spy a small parking lot, located seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and he drives up to it. He pauses for a moment, glancing at the time. It was barely 5 o’clock in the morning. He smiles and shakes his head at the absurdity of his mission but a pang of deep sadness kills the humour. He misses her.

Gingerly, shoes meet pavement as he steps out of the car. The stars stare down at him as he fiddles for the car keys and locks the vehicle. A beep echoes in the still night.

Slowly, as if he is indeed dreaming, he makes his way over to the forest. He half wonders if there might be unfriendly animals lurking about and again, questions why he chose to visit a dark forest in the middle of the night. He imagines her reprimanding him for his impulsiveness.

Only up close does he realize the abnormal height of the trees. They stand extremely tall, slender and stretched out, like a child reaching upwards with all their might. Or, more so like a giant predator attempting to conceal itself behind a miniature object, waiting for its prey. The tree trunks are an unusual ashen colour, as if they had been charred due to a forest fire. The leaves, seemingly burnt too, form a thick cluster at the top of the trees and block all view of the night sky. He imagines that very little sunlight enters the forest during the day.

He glances down at his hands, the map in one and the note in the other. This is the spot.

As he steps forward, there is an immediate and powerful gust of wind which causes him to look up. The stars remain unharmed, peering down at him innocently. The wind blows again but he presses forward. Leaves crinkle under the weight of his feet.

You’ll find more clues there.

His eyes spy it immediately.

           A rustling noise draws his attention to a piece of paper attached to the trunk of a tree. This one isn't folded up. As the wind howls around him, he walks over to the tree and unpins the paper from the trunk. Another note.

Aren’t you clever? You’ve found the last clue. Take a look inside the tree trunk. Sorry, I couldn’t find any armour but I still think you’ll like this gift. Speaking of gifts, your real gift awaits you at the end of the forest. Think you can make it?

“Armour? What is she up to?” he murmurs. Without missing another beat, he reaches a hand inside the trunk, hoping not to find an animal. He doesn’t. He lets out a low exclamation as his fingers clasp around a cold object. A handle. There’s something attached to it. His thumb brushes against it; paper. He attempts to pull the handle out of the trunk but it feels as though it is caught on something. Maneuvering his hand, he twists and turns until at last, he is able to pull the object out of the trunk.

It’s a small sword. A fake one. The note reads, You’ve always wanted to be a hero. Have fun.

He looks from the sword to the note then for the first time in weeks, he does something. He laughs. The laugh sounds musical in the night like the early morning chirping of birds.

“I love you,” he smiles down at the paper. Somehow, strangely enough, he feels strengthened and comforted by the sword in his hand. His hand clasps tightly around his new weapon, and thrusting the note in his pocket, he ventures on.

A droplet of water strikes him on the nose and as he looks up, he finds that it has begun to rain. The wind has picked up again and it claws at his face. Another droplet strikes him, then another, and suddenly, there is a rumble of thunder above. A thunderstorm. His smile falters.

He hurries onwards through the forest, his footsteps in tune with the crashing of thunder above. A slight fear comes over him as he remembers learning as a child that one shouldn’t stand near trees in a thunderstorm.

His footsteps quicken and he draws the sword close to his chest as he breaks into a run. The forest is thick and dark and for a moment, he is reminded of the fear of the dark which he once had as a very young child. Leaves are destroyed beneath him, making a nauseatingly loud crunching sound.

He comes to a fork in the forest; the forest is split into two pathways. He comes to a halt, panting as thunder roars above. Quickly, he feels for the note in his pocket, trying to remember if she had mentioned this.

Before he can move, a fierce wind knocks him to the ground. Alarmed, he looks up at the sky but can’t see a thing except for the dark trees. A sense of panic begins to overtake him.

Suddenly, there is a loud creaking sound. His eyes dart to the left and widen as, a few metres away, a tree begins to sway dangerously. Instinctively, he yells and makes a mad scramble to his feet. He dives out of the way just as the tree comes crashing down barely a metre away, the force knocking the sword out of his hands

His heart pounds. Focus, focus, she used to tell him. Just repeat it to yourself until you can focus.

Focus. Focus. His heart rate begins to fall, as he reaches for the sword.

Suddenly, he gives another yell. A hand grabs his shoulder. He whirls around and scrambles to get up, reaching for the weapon. Before him stands a tall, dark figure. He can barely make out their face in the darkness. Before he can speak, the tall figure says calmly,

“We need to get out of here.”

The tall figure grabs him by the arm and forces him to run. Thunder crashes above them and a little way off, another tree comes crashing to the ground.

“Who are you?” he yells above the noise, at the tall man. He clings fiercely to his sword in one hand and the man in the other.

The tall man, panting, yells back, “I was told to expect you. The young woman…” his voice trails off as another crash of thunder roars above.

His wife?

“This way,” the tall man orders as they come across another fork in the forest. He continues, “Your wife. She told me you don’t know about this forest. She told me to take you to see the gift.”

The gift. The man wasn’t lying.

“Who are…?” Suddenly, he is blinded by a beam of sunlight. Squinting, he sees an entrance up ahead. The tall man’s features are now visible. He’s bald and has a beard that reaches his chest. His eyes are brown and he has a calm expression on his face. The tall man turns to him.

“I know who you are, son. Your wife described your appearance to me. She told me about a month ago, when she first started feeling ill, that if anything should happen to her, I was to guide you to her gift.” The tall man adds with a chuckle, “The forest isn’t an easy one to navigate, storm or not.”

Suddenly, they come to a halt. The tall man turns to the husband and says softly, “We’re here, boy.”

They stand in front of what appears to be the end of the forest. The trees no longer block off the light and the husband stares at what appears to be the edge of a cliff, nearby. He turns to face the tall man who nods at him.

Slowly, the husband makes his way towards the clearing and the second he steps out of the forest, a mass of sunshine beams down on him.

Then his eyes widen in disbelief.

Down below, he sees hundreds and hundreds of flowers. Roses. The delicate flowers lie gracefully in the grass, rows upon rows of them, like a scene out of a storybook. The green fertile blades of grass nestled between them stand tall and proud, like doting mothers beside children. A butterfly, whose wings are a shade of brilliant blue which he has never seen before, flies over the garden. Another ones joins, then another and another until he loses count. The butterflies swarm to the roses like children swarming to beloved parents. The sun beams down on the plants. Droplets of water on the rose petals glisten, reflecting the joyous colours of the rainbow. Somewhere in the distance, crickets are chirping peacefully.

Awestruck, he does not hear the tall man come up behind him and watch as the husband is taken in by the beauty of his surroundings.

           With a stroke of the beard, the tall man thinks, there are indeed beautiful things in this world.